


Peachy

by cornsilk



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU, Addiction, Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety, Art School, Blood, Dealing with anxiety, Depression, Drinking as Coping Mechanism, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fighting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Homophobic Slurs, I LOVE ALL MY BOYS, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I love my boy, I'll update tags as we go, Keith has a Xanax addiction, Lance has an alcohol addiction, Langst, Loneliness, M/M, Minor Injuries, Photographer Keith, Sass, Shiro is such a good guy in this, Slurs, Smut, Snark, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, University, Violence, especially at the beginning, heavy emotions here guys, how to tag, idk - Freeform, its not always happy, klance, klangst, painter lance, ugh im gon cri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-08-26 14:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16683541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornsilk/pseuds/cornsilk
Summary: Keith Kogane is a hot-headed, socially-inept photography student with a Xanax addiction, a love of Rice Krispies, and a debt to repay.Lance McClain is a struggling painting student with too many feelings, a love of cheap wine, and a past fit for a soap opera.When something like chance brings them together, both boys come to realize that they way they're living doesn't have to be permanent, and that change, while often wonderful, is rarely easy.**The Smutty Klance Art School AU that no one asked for**warnings for graphic depictions of violence, addiction, sex, and snark





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!!!
> 
> Okay I've tried to write this thing so many goddamn times and it's never quite worked out, but with the final season in sight, my emotional ass is not letting this thing go.
> 
> I love comments and kudos and all that so much, it really helps, and I'd love to hear any opinions or thoughts you have!! Come talk with me, I have so few Voltron friends <333
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I appreciate you all.

The words thrum low through Keith’s skull, over and over, a sickening mantra: _“That’s_ right, _Shirogane’s your sugar daddy, isn’t he? He bankrolls you and you… what? Be a good little faggoty cumslut? For Big Daddy Shiro? Is that how it goe-“_

 

The adrenaline building in Keith is a familiar feeling; the tingling skin, the muffled sounds, the hazy, red cloud he sees through, that primal _urge_ just building building building in his chest, in his gut, until he just _lets go_. Keith would be lying if he said he didn’t at least somewhat enjoy the release. There’s something so instinctual, so pure about it. It’s almost erotic in how good it feels. 

 

So he lets his fist smash into Michael Bellinski’s face. Once. _Good_. Twice. _Better_. He’s somewhat surprised when Bellinski throws a punch in return, landing solid and bruising over Keith’s mouth, but he doesn’t even slow down. Pain is nonexistent for him right now, anyway. There is only the pure, high note ringing in his ears and the sensation of his fists hitting skin. Bellinski presses into Keith bodily, for whatever reason, and Keith shoves back, and the two lose their balance together. Bellinski struggles for the upper hand but Keith is faster, better, stronger, manages to straddle Bellinski’s hips and gather his wrists together above his head, leaving Keith one free hand to punch the absolute crap out of him. Keith can feel his nose crack under one well-aimed hit, and blood spatters up and hits Keith’s face, gets in his eyes, but he’s seeing red already. His own split knuckles let his blood mix with Bellinski’s and a sloppier hook slips in it. Bellinski’s still struggling, still trashing and bucking his hips up and twisting his arms and face, but Keith barely even notices. He is nothing but the buzzing of his skin and the ringing of his ears. Time is slow for Keith, and his breaths are long, and all of a sudden Bellinski seems to barely be moving and then there’s _more,_ there’s _others_ and they’re tugging at the back of Keith’s shirt and stilling his arms and he’s lifted off of Bellinski. 

 

Keith’s chest heaves and the adrenaline continues coursing and he struggles against the hands that are holding him like vices, snarl darkening as he shakes sweat- and blood-wetted bangs out of his eyes. 

 

Slowly, a voice filters through to him, sounding far-off and stifled, but familiar. It’s calling his name, low and serious.

 

Shiro _“little faggoty cumslut for Big Daddy Shiro-_ “ 

 

Keith barks a torn-sounding war cry and lunges again at Michael Bellinski, who hasn’t yet moved. The hands tighten around him, switch to arms which tighten further and constrict, _suffocating, suffocating_. Keith thrashes and growls and grunts but Shiro doesn’t budge, voice coming and going lowly through Keith’s consciousness, soft mutterings of ‘ _Come on, Keith. Calm down. Easy. That’s enough.’_ Keith’s heartbeat also starts to filter in, heavy and thundering, and then the tingling in Keith’s hands eases and slowly replaces with low, pulsing ache, then his lips start to sting, then his hearing slots back in fully and the last of the red fades from his vision.

 

Keith sways on his feet, suddenly unsteady and hunching. Shiro lets Keith lean on him, and the grip of his arms loosens, and Keith’s head lolls, breath coming fast and harsh.

 

All around him is silence, and he lifts his head to see his classmates, and his professor, and Security standing in a large circle around him, jaws slack and eyes wide. Keith closes his eyes, turns, and hides his face in Shiro’s chest. His cheeks are starting to heat and the first tilt of a frown has his mouth feeling like it’s on fire. Keith’s chin wobbles and he gently spits a piece of a tooth into his palm. The stares are burning into him. Anger fills him again, but it’s softer this time, a more tender kind of anger. One that hurts a lot more and leaves a lot less options of things to do about it. His heart clenches, and his jaw sets and Shiro leads Keith out of room. He tries not to notice how people scramble to get out of his way. 

 

……….

 

 

“So we have options, Keith.” Coran’s voice is soft and understanding, and he leans forward in his seat in a way Keith is familiar with. All adults sit like that when they try to convince him they’re trying their best to help him. “Thanks to Shiro here, expulsion is not the only option.”

 

Keith can’t bring himself to look at Shiro, whose eyes he can feel boring into his skull from the chair next to him. Keith hardens his gaze, staring straight past Coran and out the window. 

 

Keith suddenly realizes that Coran’s stopped talking and is looking at him expectantly.

 

“Uh - sorry, what?” He murmurs, cowing slightly at Coran’s and Shiro’s combined Stares of Disapproval.

 

Coran sighs, but his face is still kind. “Volunteer work, Keith. Shiro’s pulled some strings, talked to Michael’s parents, and after much convincing they’ve agreed to let two hundred hours of volunteer work stand in as your punishment instead of expulsion.”

 

Keith bristles, not really taking in all the words. No, his mind’s stopped at ‘pulled some strings’. He can feel his face darken. “Some strings…” He repeats softly.

 

“They understand you were at least provoked. Michael’s receiving punishment for what he said and did as well.” Coran chides.

 

Keith just lets out a disgusted noise and sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Coran stands momentarily to look for some papers, and Keith runs a hand through his hair, which he realizes is trembling slightly. Oh. He sighs, eyes darting back to his bag which he left by the door. The beginnings of a headache push at the his temples.

 

Coran sits back down with a brown file which he sets on the desk between them. “We have options, Keith. I’ve talked to the departments, and you can choose whichever position you feel interests you the most.” Keith forces himself to listen. Coran tuts, looking over the small stack of papers in front of him. He licks a finger and starts flicking through. “We have… working in the school library, working in the media rental centre, custodial labour - mostly studio clean-up, and finally… life modelling!” He finishes excitedly. “You can sign a contract to be a muse for a sculpture, painting, or drawing student!”

 

Shiro turns and looks to Keith somewhat excitedly at that, and Keith stops himself from making a face. “What?” 

 

“A _contract_ , Keith.” Shiro emphasizes, brows high and pleading.

 

Keith looks to Coran, who’s sporting a similar expression.

 

“The nice thing about a muse contract is that you have to work with your artist as long as they need, and students at higher levels usually get funding from outside sources,” Coran pauses, mouth crumpling into a barely-held-back smile. “ _So_ , if you sign a full semester or even double-semester contract, after your 200 hours, you’d actually get paid! For sitting!” He finishes brightly.

 

Keith’s chest twists. He shoots Shiro a dirty look, but it’s born out of guilt. Shiro only knows too well how much Keith’s been trying to earn money, how many jobs he’s applied for, gotten, been fired from, how many ads he’s pored over and responded to every night. It’s been nearing (surpassing) pathetic, probably for weeks now, and so of course Shiro would have come up with something like this - not only saving Keith’s ass (again) from expulsion, but getting him a _sweet_ job out of it too.

 

The guilt wells hot and thick in Keith’s chest, in the backs of his eyeballs, so he stops looking at Shiro and at Coran. 

 

“Thank you.” He manages to mutter.

 

Keith can feel Coran’s gaze linger on him before diverting back to Shiro. He hears papers rustle.

 

“Right then. Well. Shiro, I assume you can take it from here? Let us know what he chooses, yes?”

 

Shiro murmurs his assent and then turns to stand. Keith follows, swinging around immediately to grab his bag, shame making his face burn as he ducks behind Shiro to discreetly dig into the front pocket and pop a pill past his lips. 

 

It’s placebo, but he immediately feels better as the pill slides down his throat, the tremor easing from his hands and the flush relaxing from his face. Keith’s not sure if he imagines the disapproving look Shiro shoots him over his shoulder or not. Either way, Keith knows he’s a 

mess. 

 

He’ll quit on the weekend, he tells himself. (again)

 

……….

 

The sounds of the city filter up through Keith’s open window, warm and full like the sun settling orange and yellow through his apartment. Dust motes dance in the fading light. Keith doesn’t notice. 

 

His thumb flicks mechanically through the pictures on his school-rented camera. People on the bus. His breakfast (Rice Krispies). A couple scrubby finches on the pavement. Blue sky and clouds. Annoyance flickers deep in his chest. Inspiration has yet to find him this semester.

 

With a heavy sigh Keith heaves himself off his well-used (falling apart) sofa and over to his little kitchenette, fixing himself another bowl of Rice Krispies and taking a pill from the bottle on the sill. He leans against the counter, staring into the cereal for a minute, listening. Tiny snaps and crackles and pops. He lets out a long exhale, closes his eyes. Lets the aching in his black eye and bruised mouth and split knuckles wash over him. Bad job, Keith. Better luck next time.

 

His thoughts drift to Coran’s words. It _would_ be an amazing opportunity, working off his volunteer hours and getting a job out of it right after. Pride and guilt be damned, Keith knows how lucky he is to have this chance. He’s not sure how many people would want an entire semester’s worth of drawings of a resting bitch face and an overgrown mullet (yes, he knows it’s getting out of hand). But he supposes neither he or whatever artist is saddled with him are getting much choice in the matter. And if Keith’s going to do 200 volunteer hours he might as well get some money out of it… It’s the obvious choice. Is there any sense in prolonging it if its inevitable? Probably not… 

 

And because Keith is an impulsive fucker whose anxiety ramps up ridiculously unless he commits to things as soon as he thinks about committing to them, he texts Shiro to ask him to tell Coran he wants a position as a muse.

 

And with that, Keith sets his bowl on the coffee table, shoves his headphones in his ears, and blares music so loud he can’t even think about the decision he just made. And eventually, light fading to purple and then blue, and dust motes disappearing once more, Keith drifts off.

 

 

……….

 

 

Keith is woken up by his phone, buzzing one, two, three times against his cheek. He groans, pulling the covers closer to his chest and scrunching up his face in a poor attempt at blocking out the sunlight filtering through his windows. A minute passes, two, and the sunlight still highlights the backs of his eyelids red and glowing, and his phone buzzes once more, and then Keith considers the battle lost. He blinks slowly, grabbing for his phone and flicking it open. _Shiro_. Keith snarls. Obviously it’s Shiro, waking him up at 7:00 on a Tuesday. 

 

His apartment’s quiet, air still, as he thumbs through the quadruple-text.

 

‘ _Morning Keith!’_

 

_‘So glad to hear you’ve made a choice!’_

 

_‘Proud :)’_

 

_‘Also (i know you know this but) you have class at 8:30 don't forget make yourself a good_

_breakfast!!’_

 

Keith closes his eyes and sighs, letting himself bask in that soft place between asleep and awake for another couple minutes.

 

Shiro has been with Keith for almost as long as he can remember. Almost. Not that Keith wants to remember what was before Shiro came into his life. Darkness, both literally and figuratively, undeserved punishments leaving marks on Keith’s baby-fat cheeks and narrow back, harsh words ringing in his ears day and night, strict regimen sapping the smile out of his face long before his time. The system wasn’t cruel to Keith, but some of the fosters were. And Keith just _took_ it for a long, long time. He had been there when Shiro had opened the door to Keith’s third orphanage, and what had started as a tense not-quite-relationship between a rangy, abused, orphaned eight year old and a ninth-grader looking for volunteer work slowly grew into a small, fragile family. Shiro had stuck with Keith like no one else had, reading torn paperbacks with him and going over his homework, coercing the matrons into letting him take Keith on walks where he would secretly feed him ice cream and soft pretzels… He had helped Keith get away from his reality as much as he possibly could. Keith hadn’t realized until much later that maybe there was a reason Shiro never seemed to be at his home either.

 

That feeling Keith gets when he thinks about Shiro too much rises again, hot in his throat, and that suffocating feeling of _owing_ bubbles angrily. Of course he didn’t remember that he has a class at 8:30. Keith is a fucking Xanax addict. He forgets to take showers and brush his hair and do his homework and feed himself. He zones out and naps constantly and loses hours at a time. Without Shiro he’s not even sure he’d be alive. But the anxiety and most of the anger is held at bay, and he sleeps so, so soundly. Something always has to be given up in exchange for something else.

 

Keith doesn’t respond to Shiro, just swings out of bed and in a fit of die-hard rebellion has a pill for breakfast, downed with cold coffee from the morning previous. He doesn’t really know who he’s rebelling against. Maybe Shiro, for being the eternal ray-of-sunshine-optimist (on the outside). Maybe himself, honestly, for being himself. Doesn’t matter either way. 

 

He grabs his camera, and looks around the room. He was supposed to have twenty shots cleaned and edited for today, and was supposed to choose three of the twenty to base a portfolio project on. Keith has twelve raw pictures of cereal and the elderly. He sighs, camera cocked against his bare belly and eyes scanning tiredly. He chews his lip, slinks over to the wide windows. Whatever. It’s not like he’s going to find something ground-breaking to photograph in the next forty-five minutes before he has to leave for class. Keith defeatedly snaps the remaining eight shots of Hop, who has woken up and is snuffling at his feet, pigeons on windowsills, and the morning commuters rushing along the street below.

 

Setting the camera back on the table, he pulls Spotify up on his laptop and lets the music play, loud enough to drown out any and all thought as he pulls a maybe-clean t-shirt over his head and starts to ready himself for the day.

 

 

……….

 

 

 

“Wow. He lives.”

 

Keith’s eyes snap angrily over to Pidge, where they sit casually at a computer near the back of the room. He peels his soaked sweatshirt off and flings it at them before flopping into the chair beside them. No one told him they were supposed to have random fucking downpours today. Pidge catches it and flings it back. Keith scowls, tossing his camera onto the table and crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“And he’s in a _mood_.” They continue, grin quirking one side of their smug mouth.

 

Keith sticks his tongue out at them before finally relenting to talk. “What do you mean ‘ _I live’_?”

 

“Well to be honest I thought you’d probably been kicked out. Was even gonna text you about it. Everyone knows what a hardass the Dean can be.”

 

“Kicked ou-…” Keith starts snarkily before he trails off, shoulders beginning to hunch in in understanding. “Oh.” He forgot about that.

 

“Yeah. _Oh._ The videos have been going around the school like wildfire. _”_ Pidge holds their phone out to Keith. He takes it and stares silently at the screen. A grainy, shaky video plays out, and Keith watches this feral version of himself until a shiver travels down his spine, the hair on his arms standing up. His face colours.

 

Keith quickly shoves the phone back towards Pidge, a sick feeling twisting in his gut and his cheeks heating up. He tongues at the spot where the other half of his left front tooth used to be.

 

Pidge notices and grins evilly, immediately making grabby hands at his cheeks, and Keith unsuccessfully tries to bat them away. “Pidge- fuck- _fuck off_.”

 

“No, no way, dude, lemme see- _Shit_.” They giggle, prying Keith’s mouth open to poke at the gap in his teeth. “Bellinski got you.” Keith snarls. “I mean, obviously you got him _more_ but… shit. Pretty gnarly.”

 

Keith finally manages to get their hands off his face, averts his eyes to the floor. “It’s not _pretty gnarly.”_

 

Pidge shrugs. “I mean yeah, it kinda is. Kinda cool knowing I have a berserker like you on my side though, right? Like shit, I knew you had a temper and all, but _that_ …”

 

Keith slaps them and they squeal. He turns away, huffing, to look to their professor - blessedly late - before tentatively turning his gaze to his classmates. At least four are staring back, and he quickly averts his eyes. Keith takes a deep breath. Well shit. 

 

Pidge pokes his arm, softly. “I’m glad you’re still here though. It’s okay. People forget.”

 

Keith nods robotically, tongue tracing his missing tooth and fingers tracing the scabs on his split knuckles. But Keith knows people, and knows that if anything, people never forget.

 

“So what’s the deal? Because I know there is no way you did _that_ to another human and got away scott-free.”

 

Keith glances at them moodily, shrugging a bit. “200 hours community service. Turns into a paying job after, though.”

 

Pidge whistles lowly. “Wow, Shiro pulled a lot of strings for that one, didn't he?”

 

Keith glares. “It’s not like I was given much choice, okay? And it’s still a punishment. I mean I’m in fucking Portfolio classes, which are kicking my ass already, and now I have a full-time job sitting for some aesthetic-hoe bullshitting fine art kid however many hours a week for possibly the rest of my university life-“

 

“Keith.” Pidge cuts in. “It’s a sweet gig.”

 

Keith shrugs, ever-present guilt pressing at the base of his throat. “Yeah. I know.”

 

They’re quiet for a minute, Pidge just staring at him as the professor fumbles getting the projector set up. He’s a fucking _tech teacher_ for God’s sake.

 

“So who’s your aesthetic-hoe bullshitting fine art kid?” Pidge asks.

 

Keith shrugs once more, relenting to finally plug his hard drive into the computer so the class can look at his collection of ground-breaking photos of Hop and the elderly. “Don’t know, don’t care. As long as they know how to shut the fuck up, I’m golden.”

 

 

……….

 

 

Lance claps apathetically along with the rest of the class as the sixth student of the day returns to their seat. 

 

“Thank you, Helen. Lovely. Next up… Lance?” Ms. Ramos calls, eyes zeroing in on him with that vulture-like intensity that always makes Lance feel like he’s seven years old and has just been caught trying to convince Ian Curry that crayons taste super good in sandwiches. 

 

Class presentations suck.

 

Lance stands quickly, stepping gracefully through the haphazard desks and easels and students to stand at the front of the room. In all honesty Lance _likes_ speaking in front of people. Likes speaking in general, really… when he has something to speak about.

 

He stands, relaxed and laid-back as ever, and smiles at Ms. Ramos. Calm on the outside, brain running a thousand miles a minute, trying to come up with a thesis for his semester-long collection of paintings.

 

“Anytime, Lance.” Ms. Ramos says, voice and tone carrying easily.

 

“Right, right.” He amends, tilting his head to her in acknowledgment.

 

Lance stays silent, just smiling. 

 

People start to giggle. Lance does too.

 

Ms. Ramos quirks an eyebrow at him. Lance is very good at reading people. That was her last warning. 

 

No choice now.

 

“SO!” He begins suddenly. A few people jump. Ms. Ramos doesn’t. Damn. “A semester-long project. A big one. A _BIG_ project. Lots of paintings. Plenty, one might say.” fuckfuckfuck thinkthinkthinkcomeonLancefuckingthink “Lots of paintings… equals a broad subject… so one has lots to paint.” He grins, hands stilling mid-gesture. Ms. Ramos’ other eyebrow raises. Fuck. “When I think of a broad subject, I think of-“ Goddammit Lance. “uh, people! Yes, people. Humanity. The broadest, most complex subject of all. And therefore I… will paint lots of people. Thankyouhavealovelyday.” Lance rushes forward towards to sit.

 

“Stop.” Ms. Ramos’ voice freezes Lance mid-stride. The entire class turns to face him. Lance turns to face Ms. Ramos. “Lance, please step outside, I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

 

He recovers quickly, “Oh yes, for sure, definitely.” and turns on his heel to follow a strutting Ms. Ramos out the door. The class whispers and tuts like fifth graders instead of a bunch of twenty-somethings.

 

“Lance.” She says immediately once the door shuts, pinning him to the wall outside the classroom with an icy glare. He steels himself, calling upon that calm, cool exterior he leans on all the time anyway. “We are _three weeks_ into the semester. How have you not come up with a subject yet?”

 

Lance shrugs casually, insides twisting. “I just… don’t know what to paint.”

 

“You were supposed to have been thinking about that since last summer. You knew you were taking a studio course.”

 

“I’ve been _trying_ , just… nothing… _interests_ me, you know? I need _inspiration_.” He knows he’s whining, but this has been plaguing Lance for so long, and Ms. Ramos needs to know that.

 

Her expression is cold. “Inspiration isn’t found by wallowing _nor_ is it found at the bottom of a bottle.”

 

Lance immediately reddens, knowing the taste of wine still on his breath. He can feel the tips of his ears and the back of his neck heat. His palms start to sweat. She fixes him with The Look. A lump rises in Lance’s throat, _God_ he is such a _fucking baby_. His nails cut into his palms.

 

“However,” He lets his gaze be caught. “You’ve proven yourself to be a good student in the past, McClain. So I’m going to help you. You’re sponsored, correct?”

 

In his fumbling, anxious state Lance actually bows a little as he assures her that yes, he is very much sponsored, very generously, by a very old woman.

 

“Good,” Ms. Ramos continues. “then congratulations. You have yourself a muse.” She pauses, somehow looking down at him despite the good eight inches he has on her. “People are, after all, the broadest and most complex subject, are they not?”

 

Lance cows, head turning away once more, and starts turning back towards the class, That Voice just repeating in his head, over, and over, that he’s fucked up, he’s done a _bad job_ , a _bad job_ , Lance.

 

“Lance,” She calls once more. He stills. “Your muse will meet you in the basement commons, Monday at 2pm.”

 

He rubs at the back of his neck, fingers shaking, and nods, slinking back into the class as quiet and meek as a mouse.

 

……….

 

 

Turns out Keith’s never been to the ‘Basement Commons’ before, and what he thought was the basement of the dilapidated brick building wasn’t actually the basement at all. No, the _real_ school basement lives up to its reputation. Only accessible by stairs through a side door, hallways poorly lit and perpetually damp, reeking of oil paints and brush cleaner. Yes, this makes more sense. 

 

Painting majors flit by like ghosts, pale save for violent splashes of crimson and blue and black across their cheeks or aprons or paint shirts, barefoot, hair greasy and eyes dark and hollow.

 

Keith avoids eye contact with them all.

 

He was nervous about the meeting. Really fucking nervous. Obviously. Keith doesn’t do strangers, doesn’t do people in general. And the thought of sitting with someone for two hundred hours has Keith sweating. But Shiro’s texts had just kept on coming, 

 

“ _So proud of you for handling this so well.”_

 

_“You’re doing a great thing, Keith. You’re fixing this.”_

 

_“I’ll do all the other stuff, you just focus on making this work, okay buddy?”_

 

_“… proud of you :)”_

 

_“Let me know how it goes, I’m excited, aren’t you!?”_

 

And sure, maybe he’d almost had a teeny tiny anxiety attack or two about the situation on Sunday night, but valerian and Xanax had fixed that quick. Lord knows Keith’s never been able to deny Shiro for long. 

 

He enters the supposed ‘basement commons’, calm as flour and numb as a rock.

 

There are only a couple people in the room - one girl passed out on an ancient leather sofa, and a boy, tall and long-limbed and tan. He’s on his phone, free hand on his hip, facing Keith.

 

Keith’s heart rate ramps with nerves. He can feel the medicine fighting it back. His palms sweat.

 

As the door slams of its own accord behind him, the boy looks up. Eyes immediately find Keith.

 

It’s too quiet.

 

The boy’s voice too loud.

 

“Are you… the muse?”

 

Keith flinches a little. He nods, face and stance hardening in defence as he looks past Lance. Eye contact makes his skin crawl. “Keith.” He palms his own clammy hand before tucking them both into his over-long sleeves and behind his back. He swallows dryly.

 

“Lance.”

 

A silent stretches between them. Keith’s cheeks heat. He thinks he feels Lance’s eyes travelling over him, as if assessing him, _grading_ him. Something violent pulses in the back of Keith’s head. A muscle in his thigh twitches.

 

This ‘ _Lance’_ clears his throat, breaking the silence. “So, uh… did you wanna come to my studio? I could start a couple sketches. Start getting used to your figure.”

 

But it’s a lot, it’s a lot and Keith wishes he’d taken another pill, and the lights are really bright and he didn’t get much sleep last night and his head pounds and his chest feels tight. Fuck. He can’t fucking do this.

 

It’s Keith’s turn to clear his throat. “Uh… no. I-I mean, no. Not now, uh. I dunno. Tomorrow or something.” And as he talks, the nerves ramp for some reason, turn into something very close to panic. His fight-or-flight instincts are welling up strong, and he fucking knows fight isn’t an option. He takes a couple subconscious steps back. Lance’s eyes attempt to bore into his own.

 

He manages to look Lance in the face, who just looks confused, mouth slack and shoulders high. “Oh.” Keith looks away again, willing his heart to slow. “Okay. Well… I can take your number? I’m free in the morning tomorrow. We can sign that… contract or whatever then too.”

 

Keith wills himself to stand straighter, mumbling his number and looking away until Lance is finished typing it in.

 

Lance tucks his phone back in his pocket. "Okay, cool!"

 

Then silence.

 

Deafening

 

silence.

 

Keith only bares it for another minute.

 

He risks another glance at Lance’s face. He looks… confused? Disappointed? Keith can’t really tell. Makes sense he’d be disappointed though. I mean, he was told he was getting a semester-long contracted model… And he got Keith. Who still has a black eye. And half a front tooth. And a mullet that hasn’t been brushed in months. Keith swallows around the tightness in his throat, wishing for all the world that Lance would just stop _looking_ at him like that.

 

“So… see you then.” Keith finishes dryly, gingerly taking his phone back.

 

Lance regards him with a face Keith can’t read, not moving a muscle. “Yeah… okay.” His tone is kind of pissed. Keith doesn’t blame him.

 

He takes his cue and turns on his heels, all but jogging to the door. He ducks around a girl, too out of it to really see where she’s going, and bursts into the hallway. His breaths are coming too fast, his head swims. Keith swallows another pill, risks a glance over his shoulder. Lance is still standing in front of the couches, eyes not following Keith, but glazed over, lost somewhere in-between. 

 

Keith forces a big exhale, lets his head fall against the wall with a solid thunk. He closes his eyes, muscles finally relaxing.

 

Bad job, Keith. 

 

Better luck next time.

 

……….

 

 

Keith’s fingers flex and curl into the worn fabric of his bedsheets, knuckles cracking. A grunt passes his lips, drawn and tight, and his eyes scrunch shut against the light leaking through the curtains, head pounding pounding pounding with the rhythm of his racing heart.

 

It’s only been eight fucking hours.

 

His stomach flips and bubbles, muscles clenching to the point of cramping and head swimming so much he doesn’t think he could walk if he wanted to.

 

Eight. Fucking. Hours.

 

This is pathetic.

 

He forces himself to roll over, jaw clenching till it creaks, limbs tingling as he shifts them. Bugs, crawling all over him. He curls into a ball again, dry retches, sweat curling down the curve of his ear, the nape of his neck, cooling and tickling like the rest of his body, aching aching aching.

 

Eight hours.

 

Well.

 

Better than last time.

 

Trembling hands reach into his bedside drawer, put a pill on his tongue that tastes like heaven.

 

A long breath.

 

Two.

 

Keith stands, legs still quivering, muscles jumping. He sighs, wipes sweaty bangs away from his eyes, reaches for his bowl on the coffee table, moves to the kitchen to refill it. The Rice Krispies snap and crackle and pop and he leans in and focuses on the sound with all his might until his heart rate eases and his sweat dries and the cereal goes soggy.

 

Eight hours.

 

Better luck next time, Keith.

 

 

………

 

 

Lance slinks into a quiet apartment, noon sun hot and muggy behind him. He pauses, strains his ears. Nope. Pidge and Hunk are most definitely gone. He knew they were planning on going to the new exhibit at the Science Museum today. And he knew they knew he was planning on being occupied with ‘ _Keith_ ’. Lance knows that. But Lance is a fucking crybaby and for some reason it kind of hurts anyway.

 

He chucks his bag onto the couch, lets out a big breath.

 

_You’re feeling sorry for yourself._

 

He knows. _He knows_. But today has been a lot already, with a late morning and a missed bus and then the _Keith_ fiasco and then _this_. Lance never did handle silence well. 

 

A rumble permeates the apartment. Lance’s head rolls to stare out the window. And just like that the sun is gone and rainclouds cover the sky. It opens, pours, hard.  The world is grey and blue. Another sigh escapes Lance. A better one.

 

He gets up, unlatches the window, and lets himself drink in the smell of the rain, the feel of the smallest drops hitting his skin, the soft roar filling up his ears. Lance breathes easier.

 

He turns around. The apartment’s still quiet, darker than it was before.

 

 _Fucking stupid Keith. Fucking stupid Hunk and Pidge_. He thinks, but he knows that’s not really what he means. He’s… sad. And tired. And sick of feeling like this.

 

And fucking Keith isn’t exactly _helping_ , that weird, self-centred son of a bitch.

 

Lance allows the self-pity to consume him.

 

A bottle seemingly comes out of nowhere; cheap wine, warm and old and long gone sour. Doesn’t matter. Lance stares out the window, and nurses it till it’s dry, and then another one after that.


	2. Chapter 2

_Monday, 11:23pm_

 

“ _Hey, it’s Lance!”_

 

_“The painting guy”_

 

_“I just emailed Coran and he said we could sign the contract tomorrow at 9am? If that works for you?”_

 

_“Just let me know :)”_

 

_“It’s Lance btw”_

 

_“The painting guy”_

 

_Read at 12:47pm_

 

_……….._

 

 

Keith doesn’t sleep much. Despite Hop staying warm and comforting by his side, and the sedatives running through his system, making his head heavy and his limbs loose, he stares at the popcorn ceiling, for hour 

 

after hour 

 

after hour.

 

The night doesn’t pass quickly though, nor peacefully. Scenarios run through his head, each more horrific than the last, detailing humiliating nightmarish situations starring Keith and Lance. Lance forcing Keith to strip, painting him as ugly as he feels on the inside, seeing straight through him with those wide, honest blue eyes. Lance, laughing at Keith for this reason or that, taunting him, mocking him, and Keith cannot fight back, cannot stand up for himself. Can only listen to the truths and believe them, dreamt-up tears running down his face.

 

In his mind, Lance’s face twists into something to dread, something cruel and sadistic and _mean_ , to the point where Keith’s not even really sure if he’s remembering Lance how he really is at all, or if he’s imagining the cruel expressions on his face, or if he’s just making up a monster.

 

Keith’s entire body tenses until it aches and stays tense after that.

 

His nails dig crescent moons into his palms.

 

He worries his lip until it bleeds.

 

At four in the morning Keith gets up. He paces around his apartment, nervous energy manifesting in quick, light steps, and fingers itching at skin, and muscles jumping of their own accord. He takes deep, audible breaths. Forces himself to drink a glass of water with shaking fingers. Another. Another. Runs a hand through his hair until his scalp hurts, presses on bruises ’til they bruise deeper.

 

Takes a pill.

 

Another.

 

Another.

 

At six in the morning Keith passes out on his sofa.

 

At eight in the morning his phone rings. Again. Again. Again.

 

At nine in the morning it rings a few more times.

 

But Keith is all but dead to the world, dreaming of shame and humiliation and cruel, wide, baby blue eyes.

 

 

……….

 

 

“Fucking perfect.” Lance mutters. “Perfect. Abso-fucking-lutely perfect.”

 

A frustrated groan crests in the back of his throat as he tugs at his hair. He’s outside of Coran’s office. Shiro just called, informed Coran that Keith wouldn’t be coming in today.

 

Of course not.

 

Of course that self-centred cocky-ass pirate-looking bastard would let Lance wait for a fucking _hour and a half_ at _nine a.m._ on his _day off_ and have the audacity to just not show up. Sure, he hadn’t responded to Lance’s texts, but Lance knows he at least _saw_ them. He should’ve guessed, honestly. He knew that Keith guy had bad vibes.

 

Lance kicks at a row of lockers, feeling pathetic and stupid and embarrassed. He wipes a hand over his eyes. Tries to slow shaking breaths.

 

Coran had been apologetic and kind, of course, and Shiro had sounded pleasant over the phone, but it does little to soothe Lance. They’d rescheduled to sign the contract tomorrow afternoon. Shiro had assured them that he’d personally make sure Keith made it, but it did little to stop Lance from feeling for all the world like a ditched prom date, for whatever stupid reason. Is he that repulsive? Is the idea of sitting in the same room as him _that_ _revolting_ that Keith just had to ditch this morning?

 

Lance _saw the video_. He knows Keith couldn’t have gotten away scot-free. He knows that Keith is being forced into this just as much as he is, but the guy could at least pretend he cares. Fuck.

 

He makes his way down the winding staircases, out the door, in another door, to his studio. His haven. His sacred space. Soon to no longer be sacred.

 

Fucking rat bastard _Keith_.

 

He settles on the pile of pillows and blankets he has nested in one corner of the makeshift room, and lets his feelings consume him. Stares at the wall. At nothing. At everything. Until the tightness in his chest eases and he reaches over to his ancient green bong and packs a bowl, pulling it all in a few breaths.

 

He watches his smoke curl in thick, lazy tendrils up and away, gathering near the ceiling before being pulled out his propped-open window by the bitter fall wind.

 

And even though he’s upset and wounded, Lance grabs his drawing pad and some tiny charcoal ends, and finds himself carving out deep, angry eyes, some colour he doesn’t know yet, and heavy, guarded brows, and a small, delicate nose, and full lips, curled in the beginnings of a sneer to reveal one broken front tooth.

 

……….

 

 

On Wednesday morning, Keith is woken at seven by Shiro, who’s always had a key to his home. Shiro gets him up the way he always has, by brushing some of the hair away from his face and laying a hand on his shoulder and urging him awake in gentle tones. This time Shiro has the help of Hop, who’s lifted onto the bed so she can snuffle and tickle Keith’s face until he’s forced to sit up and out of her range.

 

“Morning, Keith.” Shiro says with a dopey grin, voice still rough with sleep. 

 

He may seem like a morning person but Keith’s known Shiro a long time. He knows the truth.

 

Keith forces some noise out of his chest as a semblance of a greeting, rubbing groggy eyes and yawning. He finally blinks his eyes open. Shiro’s looking down at him, tender and kind of sad and apologetic.

 

Keith’s heart aches.

 

Yesterday was not a good day.

 

And it may seem like Shiro’s just being nice, and getting Keith up nice and early and making him pancakes and coffee and orange juice because they’re family, but Keith knows the truth. Knows why Shiro’s really here. And that hurts.

 

Because Keith’s a liability.

 

Not to be trusted.

 

Even with a task as simple as signing a fucking contract that he’s lucky to even get a chance to sign.

 

Keith gets up anyway. Greets Shiro and asks how he’s doing and thanks him for coming and making him breakfast. Plays along. Pretends. Easy as breathing. The easiest thing in the world.

 

………….

 

“You know pancake mix comes in, like… a box.” Shiro deadpans. “And it’s like… one dollar.”

 

Keith shakes his head, snatching up pancake after pancake with greasy fingers to sop up the extra syrup on his plate before shoving them whole into his mouth. “Not the same.” He mumbles around the food.

 

Shiro snorts a laugh, deadpan expression dropping in exchange for a soft, fond sort of grin.

 

It’s no secret why Keith’s been acting the way he has this this morning, extra courteous, extra polite in a way that doesn’t suit his brash, blunt character, but Shiro’s happy that something as simple as pancakes seems to be helping. No matter whether Keith lived at an orphanage, a foster home, with Shiro, or on his own, Shiro’s plain-ass Aunt Jemima pancakes have always soothed Keith’s fragile heart.

 

“Guess what you’re getting for your birthday this year.” Shiro teases, passing the syrup jug to Keith, who has just run out.

 

“ _Again_.” Keith snarks, making a face, but the expression falls away to one of concentrated contentment, and those soft hums Keith always makes while he eats start to fill the air as they both fall silent. 

 

Shiro loves watching Keith whenever they share a quiet breakfast. Keith never looks as peaceful, or calm, or open, as he does these relaxed, sleepy mornings before they part ways for the day. _Never_. His posture’s loose and at ease, his hair is messy as ever (someone ((Shiro)) needs to get that kid a goddamn brush), his face looks younger and less angry than it ever does in public, and his non-syrupy hand is resting softly in his lap. Keith’s knuckles are healing, as is the bruising around his mouth and eye.

 

“How’s that missing tooth feeling?” Shiro teases gently, raising an eyebrow. 

 

Keith turns to him with a look that’s probably supposed to look grumpy and menacing, but that can only remind Shiro of a kitten. “Fine.” He barks with his mouth full, probably (definitely) to spite Shiro, who hates it when he talks with his mouth full.

 

“Not gonna get it fixed, are you?”

“S’not hurting me.”

 

Shiro snorts another laugh, shaking his head. “Speaking of-“

 

“Broken teeth?”

 

“The whole fight situation…”

 

Keith tenses visibly. Shiro knows he’s been avoiding this topic for days, but Keith sometimes needs things pried out of him in order for him to make sense of everything. So Shiro boldly moves forth with it, ignoring Keith’s narrowing eyes and mouth frowning despite the 

pancake-filled cheeks.

 

“How are you feeling about signing the contract with that Lance guy today?”

 

Keith lets out a long breath, dropping the fierce eye contact he holds so well. He seems to deflate, shoulders sagging and head drooping. He swallows his mouthful of ‘Jesus-pancakes’, as he sometimes calls them. Shiro’s heart clenches.

 

Keith shrugs. “I dunno.” Shiro waits him out, knows it’s the only way to get anything real out of the kid. “I just… yeah. I’m scared, I guess.”

 

Shiro tosses his last pancake onto Keith’s plate. A thanks, and a peace offering. 

 

“I know. Kind of a big thing. But it’s not as big as you’re making it out to be, I promise. You’re modelling. Not moving, not talking. Just sitting. And you don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

 

Keith nods softly. “I know.” His voice is small, without the usual gruff and grit he puts on. “S’just… weird. To be sitting in a room with someone for like five hundred hours.” He pauses, looking kind of _pained_. “I’m… awkward. And weird… And I’m not a model, obviously… I don’t know how to sit with someone for that long.”

 

“Sure you do,” Shiro immediately tries to console. “In total you and I have probably sat around together for years.”

 

Keith shrugs again. “Not the same.”

 

Shiro nods. “I know.”

 

“I don’t really wanna do it.” Keith says, voice even smaller.

 

“I know.”

 

“But I’m gonna.”

 

“I know.”

 

They’re both quiet for a minute, then Keith takes a big breath, slips back on that mask of 

cold indifference he wears so often, and eats his last pancake, by now gone cold. Keith doesn’t care. It still tastes like home.

 

 

……….

 

 

Shiro leaves Keith’s apartment before noon to allow Keith some time to himself to think things over and get himself ready for the day. He’s feeling at least a little better, belly full and the soft part between his fingers still a little sticky, and Shiro’s calming voice echoing in his head. 

 

He stares at himself in the mirror on his bedroom door. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Whatever happens, it’ll be over by tonight, then Keith can do whatever the fuck he needs to do to calm down. Four hours tops, he tells himself, and he’ll be home free and can disassociate or whatever until the next session comes around.

 

No problemo.

 

… 

 

He’s not even convincing himself.

 

He sits down on his bed, curling to hold his head in his hands. More breathing exercises. Massaging his own temples. Counting all his fingers and toes. Counting forwards then backwards. Everything every therapist has recommended to him in the past ten-plus years. He’s got to get it together this time. He just fucking has to. For Shiro, if anything. Hell, he can’t even imagine Shiro’s face if he didn’t go to the contract signing _again_ , especially after a pancake breakfast.

 

That has him standing. Breathing deeper.

 

And then he looks at the clock and it all goes to shit.

 

He dives for Hop, giving her a kiss on the nose for luck before grabbing his helmet and darting out the door.

 

……….

 

 

He’s almost home free, can see the school up ahead: a massive, old brick building, four stories high and almost two blocks wide, surrounded by sad gardens and benches and cracked walkways.

 

Keith slows at one last four-way stop, checking his corners quickly before gunning it. He doesn’t even hear a second vehicle’s gearshift over the roar of his own engine. Keith runs straight through the stop sign. As does a shitty blue Allegro.

 

He catches the movement out of the corner of his eye but by then it’s too late, and breaks squeal and he reefs the bike to the left and it falls out from under him. He feels it as if in slow motion, leaning leaning leaning, a jarring impact, skidding a good ten feet or so. Keith’s heart thunders in his ears as he forces himself to roll out of the way, and to keep going until he’s sure he’s no longer in harm’s way.

 

Over the blood rushing in his ears, Keith hears a window rolling down. His helmet muffles the sound but it’s enough for him to turn towards the affronting car.

 

And in the driver’s seat, a horrified Lance.

 

There’s no recognition on his face and Keith is actually offended for a minute, before he remembers his helmet. They stare at each other for a minute, and Keith tastes blood, tongues a cut on his lip.

 

“I-I’m _so. Sorry._ ” Lance eeks out, voice wavering. Keith just stares at him, at his eyes, red-rimmed and wide and watering, at his lip, trembling, his cheeks, ruddy. “I- fuck. I’m so sorry. I gotta go.”

 

And with that, Lance drives the last city block before turning into the school parking lot.

 

A honk pulls Keith back to himself, diffuses the rage building tense in his muscles. He realizes he’s literally sitting in the middle of an intersection.

 

He sighs, and throws a middle finger at the car who honked, and retrieves his bike, giving her a quick once-over. A couple light scratches. Lance is fucking lucky. He mounts the bike and kicks off once more, blood simmering, body aching.

 

Lance is gonna fucking get it.

 

 

……….

 

 

Lance’s feet move through the school to Coran’s office of their own accord, knees shaky and head spinning. His mouth is dry. His fingers tremble.

 

He almost… _killed_ someone. A human being.

 

Lance rubs a hand over his face, surprised that it comes back dry. He can feel the tears starting to gather at his water line. 

 

Deep breaths Lance.

 

Coran greets him but Lance doesn’t really hear it, doesn’t really respond or register much, and it’s only through muscle memory that his hand signs a quaky signature across the bottom of the muse contract Coran pushes his way.

 

No, Lance doesn’t react to anything… until Keith walks into the office. And Lance notices the… helmet. Under his arm. And the rips in the knees of his jeans, and the fresh bruising on his chin. 

 

Their eyes lock.

 

The room is silent.

 

Until Coran laughs uneasily, “So we know each other already, do we?”

 

The gaze doesn’t waver, the tension doesn’t snap.

 

Lance feels panic bubbling thick and hot in his chest, in the back of his throat.

 

Keith is the first to speak, though. He shoves the helmet into Lance’s chest. Lance stumbles back a step, cheeks tingling and body stiff and unresponsive.

 

“What the _fuck_ is your problem, asshole?” Keith’s tone is rougher, _angrier_ than any other Lance has ever heard in his life.

 

What comes out of Lance’s mouth is a surprise to both of them.

 

“ _My_ problem? You ran the stop sign!”

 

“So did you! Except I got _hit_ by _your. car.”_

 

Lance can feel himself blanche.

 

“Well… I-I didn’t mean to!”

 

“ _So!?”_

 

Lance is at a loss for words.

 

And then something defiant and ugly wells in his chest and he feels something in him crack and then he blushes, pushing forward into Keith’s space.

 

“Don’t pretend I’m the asshole when you’re the one who left me waiting here for _two hours_ yesterday.”

 

Keith’s nose crinkles, eyes murderous, jaw clenched. He shoves his helmet once more into Lance’s chest.

 

“You have _no. fucking. clue._ what that was about.”

 

“Hm. Oh. Let’s see. I think I do, actually. I think it’s about you being a self-centred, entitled, piece-of-shit _bitch_.”

 

Keith actually starts forward, helmet dropping and shoulders squaring.

 

“Keith.”

 

Coran’s voice is low. Lower and more serious than Lance has ever heard it, and a chill runs through him, and Keith stops dead in his tracks. Seems to think for a minute, dark eyes burning into Lance’s, but Lance holds the fierce gaze, cannot bring himself to look away.

 

Keith takes a step back.

 

Coran moves to stand between the two. 

 

“So there’s obviously some issues here,” He says tactfully. “But we’re all going to have to work together to move past it, right? So Keith, if you wouldn't mind filling in the blank line at the bottom of that contract there, yes, feel free to read it over once or twice - and then Lance, let’s head down to your studio. You two are getting your first session over with today and you are going to work your problems out.”

 

Easier said than done, man.

 

Easier said than done.

 

………

 

It takes a good half hour in the end to get Keith to sign the contract. Not that he actually says anything against it, he just seems to… think. A lot, Lance guesses. Just sits in that chair for a while, expression deadpan, helmet held in loose-wristed hands, staring at the piece of paper that will bind him to Lance for a potential eight-plus months. 

 

The good end of that is that by the time they’re done reading over and signing everything they need to read over and sign, Coran’s obviously pretty done with the both of them. He may not say anything, but Lance can read the stress in his brow, the tension in his posture. And because of Coran’s quickly slipping temper, he doesn’t insist on accompanying the two to Lance’s studio.

 

And if that isn’t a fucking saving grace, Lance doesn't know what is.

 

The walk to his studio is quiet and tense, but mercifully quick. Lance’s fingers fidget and play at his shirt and his knuckles and his lips, and he doesn't even notice Keith having to sometimes jog a little to keep up, but he allows himself a strong exhale as he pushes through the door to the basement floor of the fine arts building of Altea University of Art and Craft. Smells of paint thinner and oil paints and linseed and gesso fill his nose and he instantly breathes easier, walks at a more reasonable place through the maze-like concrete halls until he enters his sector, his home base.

 

Lance pulls back the curtain of his studio. Painting Studio 112.

And then the first word Lance has heard from him since their spat when Keith arrived: a low, muttered, “fuck”.

 

Lance actually grins a little, nods, hand on hip, surveying his home away from home, breathing in the heady musk of old sheets and oils and weed. “Yeah.” He agrees conversationally. “That about sums it up.”

 

There are wine bottles, both empty and full, on the floor and every flat surface. A green bong in need of severe cleaning is sitting in the middle of the floor, along with a couple baggies of grass, innumerable chip bags, takeout containers, gummy bags, and popcorn bags. Boxes and boxes of supplies and stacks of paper and canvases line the walls. Pillows and blankets are tossed everywhere, stubs of beeswax candles are stuck to just about every surface, and Keith thinks he sees the corner of a pentagram painted sloppily on the floor in red paint.

 

“Do you… live here?” Keith asks tentatively.

 

It’s the first relatively decent thing Lance has ever heard him say. He slips past the beaded curtain and turns to face Keith, dropping eye contact in favour of kicking around a DS game box. “Kinda, yeah. Can’t bring this shit home and I have a giant studio course this semester, so… yeah.”

 

Keith follows him hesitantly into the room, voice more civil than Lance has ever heard it before. “And you… sleep here?"

 

Something defiant and proud flares in Lance’s gut but he forces it down, decides that if berserker Keith is trying to be civil, he might as well give it a go too. So he nods distractedly, moving forward to throw a couples stray pillows onto the pile of fluffy things in the far corner of the room. 

 

"Sometimes, yeah. Studio courses are heavy, man, and I don't have room for any of my supplies at my apartment so... here we are." He chucks himself onto the pile and rolls over, smiling up at Keith. "S'not so bad, though. I got my food and weed and wine and I got a DS around here somewhere, so... yeah. Home sweet home.”

 

His eyes linger on Keith, travel down him for a second before snapping back up to meet his eyes. Lance is a people person, and has the capacity to be somewhat a professional, he thinks. He can be like that with Keith. If they can both manage this level of ease, of politeness. But a blush spreads across Keith’s cheeks, staining his pale skin in an immediate and unmissable way, and he ducks his head away from Lance's prying eyes, and Lance can’t help himself.

 

“What’s wrong, buttercup?” It comes out too easy, Lance’s tone something close to predatory, because _fuck_ , a blush like that; how could he resist?

 

Unfortunately, Keith ignores him, turns away, before his eyes flicker to Lance’s and away again. He digs into one of his back pockets. And then Keith pops something past his lips.

 

 

"Did you just take something?" Lance asks accusingly, but through an immediate broad smile.

 

Lance watches the irritation take over Keith’s face, and he snarls, ”Does it matter?"

 

 

He stands up, facing Keith, stretching a bit, mouth twisted coyly. “No. As long as you don’t tweak on me during a session" 

 

Keith turns to him violently, eyes flashing, shoulders high and guarded, but that blush hasn’t left yet. “I’m not gonna fucking tweak. It was a _pill,_ you fuck.”

 

Lance whistles mockingly, brows near his hairline. "Woah. Tough."

 

Keith bristles. “Fuck off.”

 

“Might wanna take another of whatever it is, then. You need to calm down, man.”

 

"I'm sorry," Keith continues, tone poisonous. "do we have a _problem_?"

 

Lance cocks one eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest and smug grin taking over his face. "Oh honey, you obviously have a _few_ problems." Keith's about to retort, temper flashing, but Lance beats him to it. "But first thing's first- you should take your clothes off."

 

Lance can’t help but feel in some small way he’s won, because Keith freezes. The malice drops off his face. His mouth is open, mid-word. "I- what?”

 

Lance can tell he looks fucking smug but he can’t help it. "You heard me." He pauses. "Strip, Cherry Bomb."

 

Keith’s violent blush spreads from his cheeks over the rest of his face, over his ears, down his neck, disappearing down his shirt. Some sort of thrill runs through Lance at that. 

 

And then, because Keith’s turning out to be so _deliciously_ fun to torture, Lance pulls a crumpled copy of their contract out of his back pocket. "Hm, let's see here- ah, yes, Section B. 'The employee-' That's you- 'is obliged to follow any orders or suggestions the employer-" That's me- 'wishes to be carried out for the sake of a work of art, as long as the employee's human rights are not interfered with and the employee suffers no possible danger to their personage. This may or may not include: state of dress, including costumes or styles of clothing to be worn or not worn, aesthetic styling, duration and type of pose, duration and location of the session- blah blah blah..." He trails off, smug grin widening, face the picture of mischief. "Hear that, Keith? I  _own your ass_. And I feel like sketching some nudes.”

 

Keith's blush deepens impossibly further. His eyes trail to the ground. "Fuck." He huffs on the tail of a breath.

 

"So?" Lance continues, trying not to look gleeful, stepping forward to poke Keith in the shoulder with the contract. "Clothes off, Duckie. We're wasting daylight. And hey, if you're good, I might even forgive you for dipping on me yesterday." Keith watches Lance's tongue poke out the corner of his mouth, eyes teasing.

 

 

Keith just shuts his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again he’s looking past Lance, and Lance can easily read the tension and fear and anger pouring off Keith in waves, and even though he doesn’t feel like he’s punished Keith quite enough for yesterday, he speaks again, voice softer, pushing into Keith’s field of vision.

 

"What is it?" Lance hums. Keith turns to him, stormy and dark, to glare at Lance. “… scared?”

 

Keith's eyes flash. His pulse jumps. His nose crinkles and Lance can see he's about to hit that cusp, tenses, instinctually preparing to get hit. And then… Keith’s face changes. He’s warring with himself, Lance can see it plain as day, _interesting,_ and then Keith’s shoulders drop, as does his gaze and Keith unzips his pants.

 

"There we go!" Lance whoops, stunned but impressed, stepping forward to slap Keith on the back.

 

Keith grabs his forearm and spins, using his free hand to shove Lance up against the wall, pinning him chest-to-chest. Lance lets him, blood singing in his ears as Keith leans in close.

 

"You may own my ass but  _I_ control what  _I_ do. Got it?” The words are guttural, growled.

 

Lance holds the eye contract, fucking cocky-ass grin still hanging in there. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

 

Lance watches a fresh wave of anger and frustration wash over him, but both boys know Keith can't afford to actually  _do_ anything about it, so Keith just steps back, tugs his boots off and shucks his pants off and grabs the hem of his shirt.

 

Once released, Lance decides to take a moment away, hyper aware of how uncomfortable Keith is in this situation, and while he may have realized how fun Keith is to fuck with, Lance isn’t _cruel._ He busies himself setting up his drawing board and sketching paper and the like. An unopened bottle of wine catches his eye as he moves a huge drawing pad, and Lance picks it up thoughtfully. He turns around to find Keith dropping his sweater on the ground with finality, standing, staring into nothing, naked, save for socks and a pair of… alien boxers, thumbs tucked into them at his hips.

 

“Holy shit.” He breathes.

 

Keith startles, eyes wide as he stares questioningly at Lance.

 

“Are those… _glow-in-the-dark?”_

 

Keith actually looks confused for a second, beforehe glances down and groans, shoulders dropping and eyes closing tiredly.

 

"I change my mind," Lance continues, staring at Keith with the widest shit-eating grin. "You get to keep those on. Keep the socks too, s’cute."

 

Keith refuses to meet Lance's eyes, just slips his thumbs out of the waistband. He catches Lance gesturing to the pile of blankets and pillows on the floor in front of Lance's drawing board and sits.

 

To Keith's surprise, Lance unscrews the cap on a bottle of wine he hadn’t noticed and takes a healthy swig before offering it to Keith. Lance grins when Keith doesn’t even hesitate to take the bottle and do the same, having a couple long pulls before setting it down between them.

 

Lance sits too, on the other side of the drawing board, which is propped up on the floor, at eye level with Keith.

 

"Those are some nasty scrapes," Lance comments, eyes flickering between the scabbing on Keith's shins and knees and forearms and elbows.

 

Lance bears the sardonic glare Keith sends him for a healthy amount of time before realization dawns on him and something bitter and guilty floods his gut.

 

“… oh.”

 

"Yeah." Keith deadpans. “Oh."

 

It’s Lance’s turn to blush. He rubs the back of his neck, cringing, before taking to the bottle of wine again. He searches for words, tongue feeling thick and useless and limbs buzzing with anxiety and gentle panic. "Hey, look... I didn't mean to do that, or anything..."

 

It obviously does little to soothe Keith, and Lance cringes further, fingers picking at a hangnail. Keith absent-mindedly rubs at the scrapes on his shins, shrugs. "Does that change anything?"

 

There’s an obvious shift to the energy in the room. Lance’s voice is meek. ”Well… no. I guess not."

 

The two are silent for a minute, Lance looking at Keith and Keith looking at his sock feet. 

 

Of course it's Lance who has to break the silence.

 

"You need to calm down, man.” He ends up saying, whether it’s appropriate or not. It’s the only thing that comes to mind to fill the suffocating silence. “Too tense." He chides weakly.

 

"Right, because being practically naked in front of a stranger who almost ran me over should _in no way_ make me tense." Keith snaps.

 

Lance calls upon more of that false confidence he wears so well and lets out a low whistle, holding his hands up apologetically. "Hey, I'm not the one popping Ativan or whatever at three in the afternoon. All I'm saying is that I can't draw you if you're so fucking tense. Doesn't look nice."

 

Keith glares, but Lance still refuses to wither under it. "Well what do you want me to do?"

 

"I could give you a soothing massage!" Lance singsongs, attempting desperately to ease the tension, rolling forward to start crawling towards Keith, who immediately starts kicking at him. Lance wheels away to sit on his haunches again. "Fuck, okay, fine! No soothing massage."

 

Lance sighs, thinking for a minute before he gets up and pulls his phone out of his pocket, plugging in into a speaker.

 

"What do you listen to?" He throws to Keith over his shoulder.

 

Keith doesn't respond. Lance turns around fully at the silence to stare at him.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry, is that another taboo topic?"

 

Keith still doesn't respond just grabs the bottle of wine again. It’s almost empty already. Eventually Lance just sighs and Keith watches him fiddle with the phone for a minute before music starts to play, soft and bass-y and low.

 

Lance doesn’t look at Keith as he returns to sit in front of him.

 

"There," he says, settling. "Figured you'd like some art-hoe shit."

 

Keith gapes.

 

Lance smirks.

 

"Art-hoe shit." Keith repeats softly.

 

Lance's shit-eating grin widens. "Well yeah, your name's Keith." Keith's eyebrow raises. "Keith's an art-hoe name." Lance finishes quietly, nose scrunching up and shoulders tensing again instinctually, preparing for a hit. He’s not far off.

 

Keith goes off. "YOU'RE WEARING AN OVERSIZED SHIRT THAT SAYS 'PEACHY', YOUR CARGOS ARE HELD UP WITH STRING, AND YOUR CONVERSE HAVE DUCT-TAPE ON THEM. DONT' YOU FUCKING DARE CALL ME ART HOE, YOU FUCKING ART HOE."

 

And before he’s even aware of it, Lance is a cackling puddle on the floor, doubled over and long hands clutching at his stomach. "OOOH, I hit a NERVE." He howls.

 

Keith pouts, fuming, and pulls his legs up to his chest. "Why do you have to be so fucking difficult."

 

Lance's giggling subsides and he stares at Keith, face a little softer than before. "Hey, you're difficult too." Keith can't argue with that. “We’re both sucky messes.” He finishes.

 

Keith doesn't respond, and Lance notices how his blush has faded, his hands stilled, resting on the edges of those godforsaken boxers. Maybe Lance actually managed to calm him down. Or maybe the Ativan or Xanax or whatever is just finally kicking in.

 

They're silent again, just for a few moments, Lance staring at Keith and Keith staring at his sock feet.

 

Lance shuffles forward. Keith startles.

 

"-can I?" He asks tentatively as he reaches Keith on the bed of blankets and pillows.

 

Keith doesn't know what he's agreeing to but he nods tentatively.

 

And then gently, so gently, Lance puts his hands on Keith's leg, soft and cool and firm, and moves him. He allows Keith's legs to stay curled and defensive, but tilts his legs to the side, so his hip juts out and his spine curves. He pushes one shoulder back and lets Keith hold his weight on the opposite hand - a relaxed, lounging sort of pose. He drapes his free hand along one thigh and allows Keith to keep his feel protectively curled around each other and pushes some hair out of his face, not invasive, not lingering, but steadying.

 

The pose is comfortable, Keith remarks to himself. Maybe Lance does know what he's doing after all.

 

Lance recedes to crouch behind his drawing board once more. 

 

"Close your eyes?" Lance asks.

 

Somehow, Keith complies immediately.

 

And the music plays softly, and they finish the wine easily, and the sun rises high enough to paint a yellow strip across Keith as it shines in through the high window, and Lance's fine willow charcoals scratch soothingly over the paper. 

 

Lance listens to his heart beat, to his breaths, to Keith’s. It’s almost uncomfortably peaceful.

 

“With the wine and all those downers I assume you're taking, I'm actually surprised you're still awake." Lance comments quietly.

 

He looks up from his page where he's acquainting himself with the other boy's body, all curves and dips and angles and sharp planes, and watches a muscle in his calf twitch. Keith's hands are slack and his breathing is slow and his sock-covered toes are still curled tightly together.

 

Lance can't suppress a tiny grin, can’t explain the tiny ball of warmth in his chest. Against all odds, the firecracker's out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took so long, guys. It's a hump I'm happy to be over, though I'm not quite satisfied with it. I haven't even fully watched season 8 but I've seen all the spoilers and stuff and it's actually very negatively impacting me mentally so I've decided to take a bit of a break from the actual show and find solace in burying myself in fics and art.
> 
> I super appreciate all comments and kudos, and I hope to have the third chapter out relatively soon!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading <33


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a sort of strange in-between chapter so that the next isn't overlong - i know it's less juicy but i think it's important to flesh out the boys' situations a little more.
> 
> as always thank you so much for reading! I appreciate every single read, kudos, and comment!

Lance throws himself back on the couch with a groan.

 

“That bad, huh?” Hunk asks, busying himself with tidying up their little living room, reminding himself to ask Pidge to leave all their ‘experiments’ in their room when they get home.

 

Lance just groans again dramatically, throwing an arm up to cover his face. “Hunk, you have _no idea_. This guy just… _sucks_. Like he fucking… makes _me mean_. And I’m not mean! Like I keep trying to be nice and I can handle it for like, two minutes, and then I just can’t help it and I snark. Like it’s a fucking contest or something. Like every time he opens his fucking mouth I gotta _win._ I don’t even know why! I don’t even know what I’m winning!”

 

“Sounds unhealthy,” Hunk hums distractedly as he tries to deduce exactly why there are three pairs of the same flip flops in the lower compartment of the oven.

 

“That’s what I’m saying, it _is_ unhealthy! I’m not a mean guy! And I _tried. Repeatedly._ Fucking _Keith_ literally brings out the worst in me… I can’t keep this up. I’m gonna die. He’s gonna kill me. No joke.”

 

Hunk doesn’t really respond, just hums some agreement before resorting to stuffing the extra shoes behind this big clay pot Lance got at a yard sale for fifty cents, now mainly used to store old textbooks, muffin wrappers, and used socks they can’t be bothered to put away.

 

Lance sighs and turns his face into the cushion of the couch. The thing is, for those couple hours that Keith slept it was actually… _pleasant._ Lance’s studio can get awful lonely at times, which is why he usually keeps the music going, but sleeping-Keith actually isn’t the worst company in the world. 

 

Repeat, _sleeping-_ Keith.

 

Sleeping Keith was soft breaths and little twitches and grumbly mumbling while Lance sketched him from different angles and positions, getting acquainted to the body that was surprisingly toned-looking in some places and unexpectedly soft-looking in others (those _fucking_ tiny love handles at the top of the elastic of those _fucking_ glow-in-the-dark alien boxers keep coming back to Lance for reasons he is _not_ going to delve into, no thank you very much). Because it’s not like Lance was looking for any reason other than _art_.

 

But come on, the guy’s not stupid. He knows Keith isn’t _ugly_ , despite the hair and the tooth and that constant constipated _I-hate-you-and-all-of-your-ancestors_ sort of expression that seems to grace his face during all his waking moments. And then there are _other_ moments, where Keith’s not-quite-awake, when his face doesn’t have that angry snarl and lowered eyebrows, when he looks like a floofy-haired kid with a rosy face and pillow creases on his cheek.

 

It fills Lance with anger.

 

But he supposes that from a visual stand point, Keith definitely isn’t the worst muse he could’ve been stuck with. 

 

If it weren’t for that fucking poisonous personality.

 

And the _prudeness_.

 

Lance has drawn many, many nudes over the years but Keith looked so fucking scandalized when Lance asked him to strip that Lance basically got secondhand embarrassment from the whole situation. Like Keith’s blush was so strong that some of it had to transfer over to Lance. I mean thank God for Lance’s Impenetrable Wall of Apparent Self-Confidence or else they both just would’ve been angry, stuttering, blushy messes. And Lance actually felt _bad_ , for a minute there at least, as Keith stood there in his fucking alien boxers and ankle socks, before Keith opened his big fat mouth again and Lance immediately felt better about the whole situation.

 

Lance lets out a whine in his throat, his self-pity overtaking him once more.

 

“ _Huuuuunnnkkk,_ ” he keens.

 

Hunk straightens from across the room, hands on hip and a smirk on his mouth. “Yeah?”

 

“Consolation food.”

 

“Oh come on, Keith can’t be _consolation food_ bad.”

 

Lance pouts, eyes closing, as he nods vigorously, tucking a pillow to his chest. “Keith _sucks._ ”

 

Hunk stares at Lance. Blinks slowly. Turns around to move some of Lance’s theory books off their little dining table.

 

“ _Huuuuuunnnkk,”_

 

The stand off lasts three more seconds before Hunk’s resolve breaks and he grins, stepping forward to slap Lance on the leg with his books. “Fine, but just consolation stir fry. No Pineapple Dessert.”

 

“Bananagrams.” Lance counters.

 

Hunk concedes. “And Bananagrams.”

 

 

……….

 

Surprisingly (to Hunk) the dinner conversation is almost immediately steered back towards this ‘Keith’. Obviously Hunk’s never met the guy. Heck, he doesn’t even go to their school, having got a two-year culinary degree and finding a job immediately in a downtown restaurant. But he saw the video. He’d be surprised if there was anyone left in their college town who _hasn’t_ seen the video. It was so… _primal._ Made Hunk’s stomach turn, honestly. So this random infatuation Lance seems to have developed for this boy is maybe a teensy weens bit concerning. Not that it seems like it’s necessarily a _positive_ infatuation. No, not quite.

 

“… and then the self-righteous fucker called me an _art hoe_.” Lance finishes, looking scandalized, through a mouthful of rice and chicken.

 

Hunk shrugs. “Yeah. Well. You kinda are an art hoe.”

 

“ _What._ ” Lance shrieks, rice flying.

 

“Hey hey hey, that’s not an insult, you just… fit in. Visually. At your school. Which is an arts university. It’s sort of a uniform, right? Not a bad thing.”

 

Lance seems to deflate a bit, but his mind’s pulled away easy enough. “I dunno, man, I just can’t really figure the guy out, you know? He’s so… jumpy. Angry. But maybe, like… socially awkward too? Scared? I dunno…”

 

Hunk nods along, reaching over to grab Lance’s empty plate. “I mean, yeah. Him, like, standing you up on Monday _could_ just be him being a big entitled asshole. Or… he could’ve just been really nervous? Nerves can definitely manifest as anger.”

 

Lance moves to the fridge, grabs two of the juice pouches that they bought on sale a couple days ago, nodding along. “Yeah… you might be right. I mean he’s still an ass, but maybe if I just keep being nice eventually he’ll cool off?” Hunk nods sagely. Lance grins, swatting at him as he hands him a pouch. “Aww, Hunky, such a good, wise man.”

 

Hunk snorts and bats Lance’s hand away. “Yeah, yeah let’s just get these Bananagrams over with.”

 

“ _Over with?_ Hunk, Bananagrams is an _art_.”

 

“Meh.”

 

“Oh come on, maybe you’ll win this time!”

 

Hunk gives Lance The Eye.

 

Lance caresses his face gently.

 

And then Hunk has to smile. He slaps Lance lazily on the side of the head. “Okay, okay, we’ll give it a shot.”

 

Lance sings Hunk’s praises as they settle on the old carpet and lay out the tiles. Hunk watches Lance’s face, all smiley and relaxed and focused and sunny. 

 

“Don’t let this Keith guy fuck with you too much, okay?” Lance looks up from the tiles, obviously taken off guard. “Like, sure, definitely keep trying to make friends with the guy, but if he keeps this shit up…” They stare at each other. Lance’s eyes are soft. Hunk grins. “Give ‘im hell.”

 

Lance’s face splits into a grin, a soft blush colouring his cheeks. “Yeah, I will.”

 

 

 

And karma must be real, because for his good advice and brotherly love, Hunk wins for the second time in his life, crossing ‘ _dictionary’_ with _‘diglyceride’_ and _‘gregarious’._

 

Lance assures him he cheated.

 

……….

 

Keith lets his head fall to the table with a satisfying thump, which startles Hop, who skitters frantically across the floor.

 

An analytical paper sits, barely begun and already abandoned, to Keith’s left.

 

_That moment_ replays over and over in his brain. The moment he woke up, bleary-eyed and disoriented, on a pile of blankets and cushions in Lance’s studio, basically naked, completely vulnerable. Just the thought has his cheeks heating. _Fucking stupid_ , letting his guard down like that around douchebag asswipe Lance. Fucking manipulative ass giving him _red wine_ which _always_ makes Keith sleepy. Who _knows_ what Lance could’ve done while Keith was sleeping. Maybe Keith drooled and he took embarrassing pictures to send to all his friends, maybe they all mocked him on their stupid _group chats_ , talked about his fucking alien boxers, which he didn’t even buy himself, they were a Christmas present from Shiro but it’s not like he got a fucking chance to tell Lance that among all the humiliation and the bickering. Maybe Lance just silently mocked Keith to himself, drew him from unflattering angles with double chins and belly pudge and thunder thighs _whothefuckknows_ and that’s the thing - Keith _doesn’t_ know, and it’s driving him insane.

 

Dear God, why did he have to fall asleep.

 

It was just… warm. And the music was soft. And Lance was all quiet, and his pencils made nice sounds on the paper and the position on the pile of blankets and duvets was surprisingly comfortable…

 

Keith presses his forehead harder into the wood of his little breakfast table. 

 

Never again.

 

Nope.

 

And he _knows_ he’ll have to go back much sooner rather than later, but he honestly can’t handle telling himself that right now, so he pretends. Pretends he never has to see Lance and his stupid studio ever again. Never has to strip and be demeaned to do whatever Lance says and be humiliated like that.

 

Keith’s heart beats slow and even. He’s had too many pills to allow for anything else.

 

So he lies there, head on the table, thoughts fading and drifting with the light coming through his window, and Keith  

 

 

loses   

 

 

 

hours.

 

 

……….

 

 

The classroom is suddenly filled with the soft sounds of people shifting as everyone’s attention turns to the next person sitting around the table. Class presentations. A staple at this point of the semester. Luckily, Keith’s Photography III teacher is pretty laid back, allowing a simple conversation around the table to suffice instead of a full-blown stand-at-the-front-of-the-class-and-bare-your-soul-and-twenty-powerpoint-slides kind of thing. 

 

Don’t get Keith wrong, he’s thankful it’s not the other thing. But that still doesn’t mean he has to like it.

 

So he prepared in the way he usually does for class presentations; drank some valerian tea and took a couple pills in hopes he’ll be too sleepy and sedated to feel too nervous. 

 

And it’s kind of working.

 

His face is resting in his palm and he blinks slow and soft and his muscles feel loose and heavy. He almost doesn’t hear the person to his left speaking. It really just filters in and out, quiet and soothing. He thinks Pidge pokes his right side a couple times to wake him up, but that’s okay. Keith knows they’ll keep him in check.

 

“…my uncle’s farm last summer. He has chickens and pigs and goats and cows and his life is really nice and simple and sunny and…”

 

Keith pulls in a deep, full breath. The person beside him’s voice - what is their name? Cara, maybe? Carey? Keith doesn’t know - merges and mixes with Shiro’s voice echoing lowly in his head, saying gentle and kind things.

 

But before Keith knows it, the room fills with that muffley sound again, people shifting and turning, chairs squeaking and clothes rustling. Keith blinks slowly, raises his head from his hand, and everyone is looking at him. Anxiety rushes through Keith like a dam inside him broke, but he just feels so damn _sleepy_ that none of the anxiety really seems to take effect. It’s _there_ , like it usually is but it’s… powerless, really. And it feels beautiful. Keith sends thanks to his generous renewable prescription.

 

“Keith?” His professor prompts.

 

His mouth is tacky. His hands slide off the table to rest in his lap, curling into his gloves and his shirtsleeves. “Um,” he starts, head lowering. His bangs sort of hide most people from view, and that helps. “I, uh…” He looks to the professor.

 

“Yes?”

 

Keith sighs, sitting up straighter and brushing his bangs back out of his face. No point prolonging the inevitable, really. “I don’t have a subject. For my project.”

 

He watches the professor’s shoulders droop, head tilting to the side in a tired sort of way.

 

“Keith…”

 

Thankfully, none of the other students seem too surprised or anything. Half of them are checking their phones, the other half are looking at him sort of boredly, eyes glazed.

 

Keith’s scanning over their faces when he suddenly notices the teacher, who’s looking at him like he just asked him a question.

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“ _Keith_.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“We have to figure this out, okay? You need to catch up, get inspired, get a move on with this thing or it’ll just get harder and harder.” He sort of sounds like Shiro. Keith’s feet shuffle. His fingers pick at the scrapes and bruises on his hands.

 

But he has no response to that. He stays silent.

 

His professor continues and he can feel Pidge’s eyes boring into the side of his head. “What are you inspired by, Keith? What motivates you, what interests you, what do you _love_?”

 

And that’s a lot. A lot of words Keith wasn’t expecting and honestly tries to rarely thinks about, and the questions hit him like a brick to the face. All of a sudden the pills and the valerian don’t seem to be working too well anymore. His palms start to sweat.

 

“Uh…”

 

But the professor’s not saying anything this time, not interrupting the tense silence, and Keith knows he has to come up with some answer, and now _everyone_ is looking at him, interest piqued, and it’s _hot_ in the room and he feels _itchy_.

 

The silence stretches and Keith feels hotter and hotter and more and more like bugs are crawling across his skin.

 

“Uh…”

 

It seems the professor takes pity on him, and asks again, softer this time, eyes boring deeper, “What do you love, Keith?”

 

Fuck this is a lot, this is _heavy shit_ and Keith was _not ready_ but fuck he has to say _something-_ “My, uh… bike? M-motorcycle. And, uh… my rabbit.” good good yes Keith those are safe those are good answers.

 

Apparently his professor doesn’t really agree. The look he fixes Keith with is powerfully sarcastic. He withers under it.

 

By now every single student’s eyes are boring holes into Keith’s skull and Keith can feel every single one like a laser. The silence stretches once more, but the imaginary bugs are gone and he just feels cold and clammy and exposed

 

until the teacher sighs. 

 

Tension seeps out of Keith with the breath.

 

“Alright, well at least now you know what to think about, Mr. Kogane. Let’s move on.”

 

And even though the scraping sound of chairs and clothing rustling and changing attentions fills the brick-walled room once more, Keith doesn’t feel any less off the hook, any less vulnerable, any less intruded upon, mind reeling and dead stopped all at once.

 

Pidge lays a hand on his arm, comforting and warm.

 

 

……….

 

 

The hallways are crowded and hot and Keith has no time for it, heart still hammering and brows furrowed in anger that he can’t release. His fists clench and unclench around his bag’s straps, begging for some sort of outlet for this anxiety and rage and hurt boiling over inside of him. Not an unfamiliar feeling to him, really. Usually he just practices breathing exercises prescribed to him a good ten years ago or so until he can get home and scream into his pillow or beat up his punching bag or something. 

 

He can’t get home fast enough.

 

Keith flexes his jaw in time with the counting in his head, staring at his feet, letting his steps set the pace. Shoes fly through his line of vision - mostly second-hand velcro Converse, lots of Blundstones, the occasional pair of paint- or clay-stained Crocs. One pair of Converse, however, enter his line of sight and do not leave it.

 

He reacts a half-second too late, smashing head-first into…

 

Lance.

 

Of course.

 

“Wowowow, easy there, buddy.” A hand is on Keith’s shoulder, meant to be steadying. 

 

He shrugs it off immediately, tries to move around him, fails. Keith’s heart rate picks up again.

 

Lance blocks his path once, twice, three times before Keith relents, temper flaring, and meets his eyes.

 

“How many more times are you gonna run into me before you fucking learn to _stay out of my way_.”

 

“Hm… I dunno, as long as you stay this little, I just don’t see how I’m supposed to see you coming, ducky.”

 

Keith stalls. That’s new.

 

He gets his tongue working again in record time, though, tone coated in unrelenting vitriol.“We’re the same height, you ass.”

 

Lance seems to do some sort of half-assed measuring with a look, mouth still quirked in a coy grin that makes Keith’s blood boil. “I dunno, looks like it’s mostly floof to me. And without floof -“ He manages to press Keith’s hair down for about half a second before his hand’s violently batted away. “Yes. Mhmm. Much littler.”

 

Keith snarls, unintentionally squaring up. 

 

And then Lance takes a step back, shoulders low and face soft, and Keith instinctively… deflates. Did Lance just… hack him?

 

“SO!” Lance starts again brightly, clapping his hands together. “You haven’t been answering my texts, obviously, so I thought we’d do this the old fashioned way. We gotta get the second session under way, man. I’m supposed to be pulling at least twenty hours a week in this class-”

 

“Take a fucking picture, I’m not sitting with you for twenty hours a week.”

 

“… I’m literally the shittest at taking pictures.” Lance deadpans.

 

Keith shrugs, tries again to move past Lance, who blocks him so subtly that Keith feels his eyelid twitch in annoyance. “Not. My. Problem.” It’s said low, through gritted teeth.

 

“Come ooooon, you know we have to do it again sometime soon anyway. Aren’t you free this afternoon? You can have more wine! And I’ll start some sketches and then take some pictures and then you can go, I promise.”

 

And his expression is… earnest, his tone honeyed but honest, Keith decides. It annoys him for some reason. 

 

And dread and anxiety start to trickle into his sternum again, but Lance is right. There’s no getting around the sessions. And it _might_ be nice to have some wine to destress after that shitshow of a class.

 

A laboured inhale.

 

And exhale.

 

Keith leans heavily against the wall, letting his head and shoulders droop. Lance steps back, giving him another couple feet of space, face hopeful and open, brows high.

 

Keith scowls. Shuts his eyes for a second. Admits defeat silently and to himself.

 

“Fine.” His words are sharp, and pushed through a clenched jaw. “I’m going for a smoke first, though. And I expect more wine.”

 

“Done and done.” Lance says, and before Keith can take a step, Lance has proffered a cigarette, a kingsize Camel, held delicately between two long fingers, right under his nose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh I'm so sorry this took so long; I took a bit of a break from writing because uni was kicking my ass. I know this one's shorter, but it felt like a comfortable place to end and it's an important chapter! Hopefully I'll have some more time this term to write, and thank you for reading/sticking with me/being patient/being wonderful.
> 
> I appreciate comments and kudos a lot, it really drives me :)
> 
> Warning this chapter for alcohol and drug abuse.
> 
> Enjoy :)

Keith was calm. He truly was. Two minutes ago.

 

“ _Come ooon_!” Lance singsongs, waving the bottle of red wine in Keith’s face as if he’s a dog, brows high and tone so condescending Keith sees red.

 

“ _Lance._ ” He tries. It’s gritted out through clenched teeth.

 

Keith crosses his arms over his bare chest, fists balling and pressing into his sides. He hangs his head for a minute. He needs to get control of himself.

 

But the lovely headiness of the cigarette is fading and Lance takes another step closer.

 

He holds his hand out expectantly, proffering the wine again. “Come on, Keith, wine for undies!”

 

“ _Don’t_ -“ It’s pulled out of Keith involuntarily, but he cuts himself off harshly, forcing an exhale through taut lips.

 

Lance takes another step closer. His grin is so fucking smug.

 

“Don’t _what_?”

 

Keith turns away, closes his eyes briefly as he feels his pulse spike.

 

 _“Don’t. What._ ” Lance repeats.

 

Keith knows he’s fucking with him, trying to get a rise out of him, Keith _knows_ , and he _knows_ he might deserve it, for some less-than-savoury comments he may have expressed while Lance was talking his ear off as he tried to smoke that goddamn cigarette in peace. But this is ridiculous.

 

Lance steps the smallest amount closer. And Keith feels like he’s gonna die. The words burst out of him, unwarranted:

 

“ _Don’t call them ‘undies’._ ”

 

Lance snorts, slapping a hand over his mouth, pausing for a second to obviously collect his laughter. Keith crosses his arms and looks away, nose twitching with how strongly he’s fighting his urge to choke-slam Lance into next week.

 

Suddenly Lance is all too close again. “What was that about choke-slam?” Keith feels the flush wash over him. Of course he said that aloud. Could this day get any better? “Sounds kinky.”

 

He clenches his jaw, straightening. Forces a breath out of his nose.

 

And then, with as much bruised dignity as he can muster, Keith shucks off his _‘undies’_ , throws them in Lance’s face, and grabs the bottle of wine.

 

It’s open before he realizes it, and he takes a long pull, and another, moving stiffly to the futon to sit. 

 

Lance follows, a smile pulling at his lips as he folds Keith’s boxers and sets them down with his other clothes. 

 

“Thank you.” Lance says, teasing gone from his voice, leaving it soft and honest. Keith hates it.

 

He doesn’t look at Keith either, mercifully, and instead gathers his paper and a jar of ink, this time, setting up at the foot of Keith’s pile of blankets.

 

The averted gaze does little to soothe the rapid pounding of Keith’s head and heart. He tries to ease the vicious scowl painting his face but his body won’t listen. He drinks more wine. His body shivers.

 

So fucking exposed.

 

Heat floods his face, travels all the way to the tips of his ears, down his chest, counteracts the chill of the air on his naked skin.

 

Keith _hates_ it.

 

The anger and annoyance and humiliation settle into something heavier in the bottom of his gut, some pathetic, and Keith can only clench his teeth against it. He looks up to Lance’s face, open and content. His scowl twists deeper. Content. As if Keith isn’t being degraded and tormented by him _right. Here._

 

When Lance finishes setting up, and Keith’s halfway through the bottle, Lance glances up at him, and the soft smile falls from his face.

 

“What’s wrong?” Lance asks.

 

Too many words, and not enough, well up in the back of Keith’s throat. His tongue feels heavy, thick, but he speaks through it, through a clenched jaw and buzzing extremities, painfully aware that he’s completely naked.

 

“Stop acting like that.” Keith hates how strangled his voice sounds, how thin.

 

“Like what?” Genuine confusion. _Genuine. Right._

 

Keith is surprised by how many words spill out of him next, immediately, scathing, venomous. “You can drop the fucking act; I know you hate me, and I hate you. I know you’re being forced to do this as much as I am. So just _stop_. And get it over with.”

 

Lance is silent for a minute. His expression’s dropped. It’s less warm. Keith knew it. Knew it was an act. He’s seen enough of it - he can call bullshit from miles off.

 

He wants a pill.

 

He wants Shiro.

 

He wants to put some fucking clothes on.

 

Eventually, Lance blinks, slowly, and speaks. “I was trying to be nice to you.”

 

“I know. Don’t.”

 

Lance’s expression shifts again. Keith sees it happen slow. Brows furrowing, mouth twisting, eyes narrowing. It doesn’t suit him. But Keith is more comfortable with this, knows how to react to this. It’s familiar and the tension in Keith’s throat relaxes a touch.

 

“You don’t have to be such an asshole. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. I was trying to make it easier for you.”

 

Keith’s arms are braced in front of him, shoulders tense, as if he’s ready to pounce. “Newsflash, you fucker, it didn’t work. You did a shit job. It’s not easy for me, and nothing you do is going to make it easy, okay? It’s fucking humiliating, and you’re a cocky fucking self-obsessed douchebag, and I hate every second of it, okay? Nothing you say, no matter how _charming_ you think you are, is going to make it better.” A pause. Lance’s face hasn’t changed, but his face finally echoes the blush high on Keith’s. Keith’s heart is pounding too hard. More words slip out, against his will. “But I have to do this. So I’m going to. I’m going to sit here. And deal with it in any way I have to. And you’re going to sit there. And fucking draw me. Okay? Nothing more.”

 

Keith can’t decipher the look on Lance’s face. It’s mixed, it’s a lot of things at once, too many things, flicker faster than he can catch them.

 

Finally, it settles. Cold. Distant.

 

Good.

 

Keith sits back a touch.

 

Embarrassment threatens to pull him under but he fights it, holds vicious eye contact, chin high and defiant.

 

Seconds tick by, but Keith holds his ground as well as Lance does. Heavy, pregnant silence. Keith watches Lance’s jaw clench, and then he stands, moving away from Keith.

 

He grabs his disgustingly dirty bong, picking the torched weed out of the bowl into an ashtray, and refilling it, before returning, setting it down between them.

 

Lance takes a pull, then sets it back in between them. He sets the lighter beside it.

 

An offer.

 

Keith stares at him. Doesn’t know what to make of it. His body’s still ready to fight, still coiled, muscles aching. He searches Lance’s face further.

 

Nothing. Complete passiveness.

 

And while it irks Keith, he doesn’t know what to do about that. Saying anything more would just embarrass him further.

 

So Keith takes the lighter and the bong, and takes a pull of his own. Sets it back down.

 

They take turns. The room is silent, save for the bubbling and the heavy, smoke-rough exhales.

 

Then Lance grabs the bottle of wine and finishes it off. He pulls another one out from behind a case of oil paints. Opens that one too. He still doesn’t look at Keith.

 

And that’s when Keith realizes that Lance has problems. Addictions. Like Keith.

 

He doesn’t pity him. There’s too much anger in him for that. But he feels… softer, somehow. 

 

A thread, fine and delicate, attaches itself between the two boys. 

 

Keith swallows and looks away as Lance sits back down, settling his board on his lap. He begins to draw Keith, sitting just as he is, legs curled up defensively to cover himself, arms planted in front of him like a fucking gorilla, expression dull, with the ink and a soft brush.

 

 

 

……….

 

 

Their parting is awkward, after Lance draws Keith in silence for two hours. Keith doesn’t ask to look at the drawings, but he catches brief glimpses of some of the ink sketches, and he’s angry that Lance manages to make even Keith’s shitty poses look good. He captures the light that shines in from the high window, and the wide expanses of Keith’s smooth, bared skin. Keith’s face in the drawings looks distant, and closed off, and empty, and Keith doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t say anything. 

 

Lance averts his eyes to allow Keith to redress, for which Keith is thankful.

 

When he’s fully clothed again, Keith turns to Lance, and makes eye contact for the first time since their argument. Keith doesn’t feel bad. There’s still too much boiling inside of him for that, but he’s thankful that Lance seems to be listening to him. It’s not comfortable, or nice, or enjoyable. But like this, Keith thinks he could handle sitting for Lance a few times a week. Over time, they may even evolve to have comfortable silence. But for now, this is enough. Keith can handle this.

 

The wine and weed helped too, he thinks. Settled them down, smoothed things over.

 

Maybe he’ll bring the wine next time. He has a feeling Lance goes through a lot of it, and quickly.

 

“Does tomorrow work for you?” Lance asks, voice dry, eyes half-lidded. He did drink quite a bit more than Keith.

 

Keith nods. “I have class until eight.”

 

“I’ll be here.”

 

Then Lance turns away, and Keith reads it as a dismissal. He grabs his things and leaves.

 

And though that’s specifically what he asked for, civility and nothing more, it feels kind of… wrong. It looks wrong on Lance.

 

Something small, and twisting, and hot buries itself in the pit of Keith’s stomach. Tastes an awful lot like guilt.

 

But Keith checks his phone, and Shiro’s texted him, checking in, and he manages to push the feeling away.

 

He did good. As good as he could.

 

Shiro will be happy.

 

And Keith can’t ask for anything more than that.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another unhappy chapter :( Not long before things start to change, though
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for all your lovely comments and kudos. I appreciate you all!
> 
> **Warnings this chapter for mild self harm and graphic depictions of anxiety and unhealthy coping mechanisms**

Lance stares at himself in the mirror. He does it a lot, to be honest. He’s just finished moisturizing his face. Usually that helps. Makes him feel better. Cared for. Comforted. But he looks in the mirror and sees nothing but hollow, empty eyes, too big for his face, staring back at him. He looks like he did when he was a teenager, pouty and pessimistic and sour. Lance tries to soften his face, tries to ease his brows and gentle his mouth. 

 

It doesn’t work. 

 

His eyes seem to droop further.

 

Frustrated, Lance looks away, rubbing a trembling hand over his face, too rough, too harsh. A punishment. 

 

He trudges back to his room, grabbing his schoolbag and staring balefully at the untouched toast on a plate on his bed. Hunk had even bought him his favourite honey to put on it. Lance loves toast.

 

But it sits, cold and uneaten. He isn’t hungry.

 

The house is too quiet. Eating the toast sounds too loud.

 

Lance breathes a sigh, but that sounds too loud too.

 

His shaky fingers tighten on the strap of his bag, teeth clenching, temples pounding in the rhythm of his heart.

 

He leaves the house, breath letting out in a rush when the sounds of the street fill his head, and pull him blissfully away from himself.

 

 

……….

 

 

 

Lance tries not to fiddle. He honestly makes a conscious effort not to, after have been told countless times throughout his childhood to stop. But his mind keeps drifting.

 

To Keith.

 

He’s not surprised, not really, but it’s distracting, pulling him away from listening to a brief lecture about composition. He can’t help it. His thumb drums against the table, his foot bounces, and his thoughts return to Keith.

 

It’s an issue. How’s Lance supposed to work around this? How’s he supposed to fix things when Keith seems hellbent on being an antisocial, hateful asshole?

 

Lance usually thrives in social environments. It’s how he was raised, it’s what he’s used to. People are His Thing.

 

But Keith… is a whole other ballgame. He just can’t figure the guy out. Maybe Keith actually does just hate him on some profound, unchangeable level, and would rather sit in painful, awkward silence for 200 hours than speak to Lance, ever. Maybe Keith’s a sociopath, and doesn’t get just how fucking awkward it really is, how uncomfortable Lance feels, how palpable the tension is in the air, thick enough to taste. But that brings to mind that blush, the one that’s pretty much ever-present whenever they’re in a room together. And the shyness. 

 

Ok so sociopath’s out. 

 

In any case, Lance knows he can’t live with this, not for long. He needs to do something about it. Needs to fix it. _Needs_ to. And he doesn’t care if he’s being pathetic, or hopelessly hopeful, because he can handle that, as long as he doesn’t get yelled at again.

 

Lance sighs softly, eyes falling away from the presentation to the table. He traces a carved line with his nail, chewing on his lip thoughtfully.

 

He hates having to think things over by himself. He does much better speaking aloud, but even he’s not at that level of lonely yet. Not in public, anyway.

 

Hunk and Pidge have been so MIA lately. And Lance _gets_ that they’re busy. He’s heard Pidge’s spiel about the new digital software they’re working with, and _knows_ Hunk’s picked up more shifts at the diner. And he _knows_ he’s being a baby, but… he just… needs someone. Needs to know what to do. Doesn’t trust himself to make any decisions concerning Keith, looking at his track record.

 

Ms. Ramos calls on Lance then, and he thanks his stars he’s a good multitasker.

 

“Degas.” He supplies.

 

Ms Ramos nods curtly, moving on.

 

He _did_ plan on meeting with Keith tonight, and if nothing else, he could do his best to make their session civil… Keith seemed calmer after the wine and the weed. Hell, Lance did too, obviously, but that’s beside the point. Maybe that’s the key to Keith. That’s they key to Lance, after all, wine and weed, why wouldn’t that be same for Keith? Maybe they’re more similar than he thinks.

 

But that’s a dangerous thought path, thinking he can relate to Keith, thinking they could be something more than people who tolerate each other. Yeah, that’s a thought path that could most certainly result in Lance getting yelled at again, and Lance doesn’t think he could go through with being yelled at again. No. No way.

 

It hadn’t ended well for him, yesterday. No. He’d gone home in a panic, tears filling his eyes before he could even get in their front door. He was greeted with the devastating realization that he was out of wine, so he stole Hunk’s mickey of whiskey and finished that off. 

 

He doesn’t usually drink like this, Lance had ensured himself, he doesn’t usually drink this much, or this many times in a day, or get this fucked up, but words bounce around in his head, and Keith’s poisonous expression flickers behind his eyes every time he blinks. 

 

Bad job, Lance. Bad fucking job. 

 

Lance had pressed a palm to his forehead as hard as he could, until the tears eased off and his headache dulled to a pulsing ache, and he could take full breaths without them shaking or hiccuping. He’d passed out on the couch, eyes crusty with salt, skin tacky, mouth dry.

 

Not again. 

 

Lance can’t let Keith affect him like that again. If Keith doesn’t give a shit about him, he’s not going to give a shit about Keith.

 

But Lance knows himself. Knows he’s soft and easily manipulated and overly emotional. It will kill him to leave things as they are with Keith, barely civil and painfully strained. No. He tugs at his hair, forcing a deep breath through his lungs. Ms Ramos has stopped talking. He’ll do his best. Tomorrow, he’ll get wine and weed and do better. And tonight… he’ll do what he can.

 

……….

 

 

Ms Ramos meets with Lance towards the end of the class. She leans against his worktable, arms crossed, expression terrifyingly neutral.

 

“So?” She asks. He stares up at her from his seat, already stress sweating, fingertips tingling and numb. “How’s the muse?”

 

He clears his throat and wipes his hands on his pants before rifling through his folders for the drawings he has so far of Keith. Lance hands the stack to her, eyes trained on his lap.

 

“These are preliminary… just charcoal and ink. I know it’s not a lot, I just wanted to get used to-“

 

Ms Ramos raises a hand, and Lance feels his words die on his tongue. She flips through them, some of Keith as a whole, in the space, among thick blankets and bathed in soft light, some of close-ups of his body, getting used to the curve of Keith’s thigh, the sharp angles of his chest, the delicate bend of his ankle.

 

The professor splits them into two distinct piles. One of the first session. One of the second.

 

She points to the first pile. “He’s sleeping in these.”

 

Lance feels like his blood’s stopped in his veins, cold and thick. “Uh… yeah.”

 

She stares at Lance for a second, eyes wide, as if he’s not getting something, and a familiar, poisonous ache settles in Lance’s chest. _Stupid._ Ms Ramos gestures violently with her hand towards both piles. Lance has to force himself not to flinch. “Technically, these are good. They’re fine. We know you can draw. That’s not the problem.” A heavy pause.

 

“The… problem?” Lance asks. His voice sounds so small. He feels his shoulders hunch inwards, feels his feet twist together of their own accord.

 

“There’s nothing to them. When he’s asleep he at least looks somewhat interesting. Soft face, feminine pose… It’s not a lot, but it’s better than… this.” She points to the second pile, the ink drawings of Keith, posture tense, awkward, and defiant, face devoid of any and all emotion. Ms Ramos’ lip curls in the beginnings of a sneer. “This is boring. Pointless. Useless.”

 

Oh.

 

That’s harsh.

 

Tears threaten to fill Lance’s eyes, stinging at the backs of them, and he digs his nails into the meat of his palm until it stops. _Fucking crybaby_.

 

“If you’re planning on doing a collection about humanity, _he_ ,” She stabs a finger at a closeup of Keith’s face. “Needs to _show humanity._ Needs to show it to you, show you some emotion, some personality, _something_ , so you can capture it, and make _me,_ the _viewer, feel something._ Right?” Lance doesn’t say anything. Can’t. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, his throat’s too dry to swallow. “ _This_.” She holds up one of the drawings. Lance can’t look at it. “Is nothing. Makes me feel nothing.” She puts it back down. “Useless. Not art.”

 

Silence.

 

A Look.

 

His fingers are so cold. His shirt collar feels like it’s choking him. He wants to hide his face.

 

Eventually, under that penetrating stare, words bubble up out of Lance’s mouth, shaky and wet and desperate-sounding. He gestures to the drawings, willing himself not to cry. “It’s Keith, it’s, it’s _him_ , he can’t, he won’t show me that stuff. _Emotion_. I-I… I don’t know, we just don’t get along, he doesn’t _like_ me…”

 

He risks a glance up at Ms Ramos’ eyes and flinches. Feels pathetic. Like nothing. Like dirt.

 

“May I remind you, Mr. McClain, that you and this _Keith_ are bound by contract. Meaning you’re just going to have to work things through. Be _professional_ about it. And get. More. Out of him.”

 

More tears burn the backs of his eyes, frustrated and hot and stinging. More words threaten to well up out of him but he clenches his teeth, forces them back. He won’t embarrass himself further. He bites his tongue. Draws blood.

 

Ms Ramos must take pity on him. She taps the stack of drawings once more, then turns, and leaves.

 

Better try harder next time, Lance.

 

……….

 

 

After that shit show of a class, Lance allows himself a couple hours alone in his studio before Keith arrives after his own class. His studio used to offer him a sense of security, of safety, a haven. But this time, the pile of blankets only makes his throat feel tight. He sees those drawings. God, he wants to burn them.

 

Lance mourns the loss of his safe place. 

 

Mourns his lack of wine and dwindling supply of weed. He smokes the last of it, as panic and anxiety threaten to overtake him, hands shaking too much to do more than light his bong, let alone draw something that won’t get him a scolding. 

 

He wishes deeply that he had someone to talk to. 

 

 

 

The silence of his studio, the isolation of it, is so strong that his ears ring, his chest aches, his eyes sting as if he’s going to fucking cry _again_. His stomach churns. He starts shaking, shudders wracking through his body. Maybe it’ll be for the best if he and Keith don’t talk tonight. Lance is pretty sure he’d just end up in tears, and then he’d have to go off himself from pure humiliation. He’s pretty fucking sure Keith wouldn’t be gracious about it. No dice. 

 

He just doesn’t know how to fucking handle Keith. Or how to handle anything, right now, really. But Keith’s face haunts the backs of his eyelids the most. Cold eyes, tight line of his mouth… Lance just doesn’t fucking know. He doesn’t know whether it’s best to stay stone-cold silent, and end up with more emotionless drawings, but less emotional agony, or whether he should… what, just ask Keith to show emotion? Lance almost scoffs to himself. As if. 

 

He just doesn't know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know. 

 

He curls into a corner of his studio, head against a thin plaster wall, bong torched between his feet, and tries to will away the spasming of his legs against his chest, tries to will his mind into drifting far, far away.

 

………

 

 

Keith arrives shortly after eight, smelling of cigarette smoke and chemicals. He knocks awkwardly on the doorframe, despite the lack of a door, peering through the bead curtain shyly. Lance heard him coming, obviously. Knows was time it is, due his near-constant checking and re-checking of his phone. But he can’t make himself raise his head. Not yet. Not yet.

 

Keith knocks again, softer. 

 

Lance’s blood feels cold. His lungs feel too small. He forces a breath in, lets it out shaky and shallow.

 

Raises his head off his arms, clears his throat before he stands to greet Keith and grant him entry.

 

He tries so hard to look okay. So fucking hard.

 

But his Impenetrable Wall of Seeming Self-Confidence feels like its crumbling, for the first time in a year and a half, since he rebuilt it stronger than ever before.

 

Then the most unexpected words ever: “Are… you okay?”

 

Lance pauses, for a moment, but still can’t meet his eyes. Instead, he moves to gather his drawing pad and some charcoal ends off the floor.

 

“Yeah, just a hard class.” He fights to keep his tone light, not sure if he succeeds or not.

 

When Lance finally turns to Keith, he’s standing a few feet in from the doorway, fists curled into his shirt, expression far-off and pensive. He has an expressive face. He truly does, no matter how much he tries to hide it. And Lance tries not to be mad at Keith for failing so far to give Lance any semblance of that expressiveness to draw, because he _knows_ , he _knows_ it’s his own fault. But his mouth sours, heart clenching in desperation and helplessness.

 

A small sound catches in his throat.

 

It’s enough, in the thick silence of the studio. Keith turns to him, looking for all the world like he’s just been pulled out of a dream. For the first time since they’ve met, Lance could almost say Keith looks… sheepish. Or something similar, but harder. Some strange in-between gaze of defensiveness and timidity.

 

Keith drops the gaze, and begins to strip. Lance looks away, and finishes setting up his station.

 

Lance is grateful they’re not fighting yet. He knows he wouldn’t be able to handle it, not tonight. 

 

When he looks up, even though Keith is the one who’s naked, Lance feels exposed, tender, like a raw nerve.

 

Keith’s waiting. Waiting for Lance to start drawing him, as he is, sitting cross legged in the pile of blankets and pillows, shoulders tense and hands planted in front of him to preserve his modesty.

 

_Not. Art._

 

Another sound threatens to escape his throat.

 

“Keith,” Lance starts. It’s too soft, in the stifling stillness of the room. He watches Keith’s expression harden. “I…”

 

He watches Keith’s jaw clench, his Adam’s apple bob in motion with a swallow.

 

“What.” The tone is so harsh, the word bitten off, that Lance flinches, just a little. His stomach churns again. His fingers are cold and sweating and numb.

 

“… nothing.”

 

Lance feels his own expression harden, to mirror Keith’s. The tension in the room rises. Lance is sure that if Keith had hackles they’d be raised. The thought of a fight makes Lance feel like he’s going to be sick, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Keith is making it clear. Lance is powerless.

 

Anger and frustration and noxious hatred curl in the base of Lance’s gut. 

 

He scoots closer to Keith. Only a few feet away. And begins drawing Keith’s face, just as it is, full of blatant animosity, dripping with delicately-held rage, just asking Lance to challenge him.

 

Lance’s lines are harsh and dark. There’s no light coming from the window. It’s too late in the day for that, so the sterile white light of the bulbs above them cast rigid shadows over the smooth planes of Keith’s figure and face, highlighting his cheekbones and leaving the pits of his eyes dark.

 

There’s nothing else to do but take what’s given to him.

 

It’s been a long time since Lance has felt this helpless, this _used_. The feeling drapes over him and threatens to smother him.

 

……….

 

 

Lance barely lasts an hour. He finished the sketch of Keith’s face. Did a couple others of his body, too, close up, in a poor attempt at making Keith feel exposed, but his stone face gave away nothing.

 

He drops the charcoal end and wipes a hand over his face, not even caring that he’s definitely smeared it all over himself.

 

“You can go.” He forces, voice tight.

 

Keith’s face doesn’t change. The contempt in his expression doesn’t change. Lance is too tired to care, emotionally and otherwise. He’s done for today.

 

Lance packs up his stuff for a couple minutes before Keith seems to get the memo. He stands, joints cracking. Lance notices it belatedly, realizing that Keith didn’t shift his position once over the hour. He must be sore. Lance can’t bring himself to care.

 

Keith dresses quickly and quietly, popping another one of those pills and setting a cigarette between his lips before he grabs his bag, and leaves without a word.

 

Lance knows it doesn’t mean anything, didn’t actually expect anything more, but it kind of hurts anyway. Twists the dagger that much deeper.

 

He can feel the scowl on his face. It feels wrong. He tries to wipe it off, but his fingers just come away wet. A soft, messy noise escapes him, so he bites his lip, tries to cut it off, but it just manifests as a whine instead. A tiny, pathetic whine.

 

Fucking _crybaby_.

 

Lance sits, entire body feeling like it’s protesting against him. His limbs feel like jello, quaking and shuddering of their own accord. His head pounds. He _aches_. Powerless to do anything else, Lance curls up on the blankets, still warm with the remnants of Keith’s body heat, and cries himself to sleep.

 

……….

 

 

Keith arrives at his home much earlier than he thought he would.

 

Something claws at his chest, digs into a tender place behind his ribs, as he unlocks the door and sets his bag down. He feels… bad. He’d premeditated a lot, about today’s session. Zoned out pretty much his whole class to think about it. Shiro’d been too busy to talk, so Keith had tried to counsel himself on it. A therapist had once gone through the motions of it with him, when he was twelve, tried to explain to Keith how to work through things when you were alone. At the time, Keith had taken it offensively, as if the therapist was suggesting he’d be alone forever. Now, he knows they were just projecting, and they’d guessed right.

 

He’d planned on trying to be civil with Lance. Maybe even kind of _polite_. He knows he’d been harsh on him last time, but Keith had thought that they had maybe come to some kind of understanding. Keith rarely used words to express himself. He was much more versed in expressions of the body, another therapist had once told him. Physical expressions of things like anger and disappointment.

 

But he had used his words, yesterday. And did kind of an okay job, he thought. He had definitely got the message across.

 

And today he was planning on acting as if there was some sort of truce between the two of them. But then Lance spoke. And his voice was… _like that_. He’s not sure what Lance was going to say, but he’s sure he wouldn’t have liked it. There’s no other reason for Lance’s voice to have been that soft, that thin. It scared Keith.

 

And Keith had reacted as he reacted best. Instinctually, and viciously. A cruel reaction to a voice that tender, Keith knows.

 

He was immediately aware that he’d fucked up. But Keith has little more to stand by than some semblance of pride, so he held it as well as he could. Refused to buckle under Lance’s stare, whether gentle or brutal. He’s not sure if was his harsh tone today, or something he said yesterday, or maybe something he did or didn’t do, but he knows that face. He did _something_ wrong. Lance was a mess today, and it was because of him.

 

He watches his hand, pressed to the countertop of his kitchenette. It’s twitching.

 

He puts a hand to his face. His cheek is jumping too. And it’s warm. He’s blushing. Still.

 

Keith sighs, some of the tension seeping out of his body, only to be replaced by white-hot embarrassment. He fucked up. He doesn’t like Lance. No. But he knows he fucked up. Was maybe even out of line.

 

At a loss, feeling listless and itchy, Keith takes another pill before stripping again and stepping into his shower. He cranks the tap until the water’s so hot it feels cold, making his skin raise red and shiny. It hurts, but it forces him to feel himself, feel his body, his skin. It’s grounding, and it chases away the ghost bugs that are crawling all over him.

 

Keith sits down, curls his legs to his chest on the floor of the small shower, and breathes in deep lungfuls of steam. He wills the twitching away, wills his heart to stop hiccuping, wills his mind to settle.

 

He fucked up. But he’s okay. He’s doing okay. And he’ll do better tomorrow.

 

But on his living room table, beside soggy Rice Krispies and a pile of bills, papers sit unfinished. His camera sits untouched. At school, Lance cries, and all Keith can do is twitch.

 


End file.
